Noblesse Oblige
by rageai
Summary: G1. Mirage's life as a young Tower mech is perfect, as far as he's concerned. That is, until his father decides it's time for him to get a personal attendant. Life with the most unusual mech he's ever met is certain to require a bit of adjustment. Slashy.
1. Chapter 1

This was originally supposed to be the one- or two-shot prequel to something larger, with completely different pairings. It's still a prequel, but it grew and grew and grew. Mirage just kept talking, and he had more to say than I had originally thought.

This takes place in a G1 side-universe, which is essentially the love child of a messy orgy involving the G1 cartoon, the Marvel US and UK comics, the Dreamwave & IDW comics, some fandom clichés, and a (questionably) healthy scoop of my personal preferences.

I'm not a big fan of OCs myself, but since this is set before the G1 storylines usually pick up, all of our favorite 'bots aren't together as a group yet, so I needed a few OCs to fill things out.

Disclaimer: Anything worth owning isn't mine. Transformers belong to Hasbro and Takara. If they did belong to me, things would probably be...different. To say the least.

* * *

**Noblesse Oblige**

Chapter 1

* * *

noblesse oblige -_n_ F, lit., nobility obligates:

The moral obligation of those of high birth, rank, powerful social position, etc., to act with honor, kindliness, generosity, etc.

* * *

If the house had been built in modern times, it might have been called 'ostentatious'. But people tend to view the excesses of the old with a more tolerant eye than those of the new, and so the palatial mansion that sprawled out across extensive grounds was called 'regal' and not 'tacky'. It was the oldest and nearly the largest of the residences that made up the ultra-exclusive, if-you-weren't-born-here-don't-even-think-about-it region of The Towers. Built countless vorns ago, it served both as a model for architecture students to study in their classes and as the residence of the descendants of the family for whom it had been built.

All two of them.

The youngest descendant of the house of Kallin was making his way through the halls of the house. Some younglings who are born into privilege rebel against it. Not Mirage. He had a natural eye for detail, and was being raised with an emphasis on appreciation for the finer things in life. Each arch and column and spire was regarded with pride, the same pride with which he wore the traditional house colors of blue and white and silver on his smooth metal skin and with which he wore the house shield centered on his chest.

The floors and walls of the hallway were metal, and his feet were metal, but the youth made hardly a sound as he made his way clear across the house from his quarters to the office of his sire. He remembered once upon a time clattering down the hallway with the characteristic exuberance of a sparkling, only to have a heavy hand clamp down on his shoulder and hold him still. "Walk with dignity, if you please," his father had said firmly. "There will be no more of this clomping around like a commoner." And Mirage, who strove for nothing less than to uphold the ideals embodied by his sire and outlined by his heritage, had adopted a much more graceful and appropriate gait. His new walk greatly complemented his namesake natural abilities, but even more importantly, it had earned him one of his sire's nearly-imperceptible nods of approval.

As he walked, Mirage curiously mulled over the possible reasons for being summoned. The request for his presence had interrupted his long morning of doing nothing at all. His main tutor was in Iacon for a conference and his sire had granted his other various and sundry instructors the deca-cycle off, giving Mirage a short but welcome vacation from his studies.

Mirage had a feeling he was expected to be more constructive with his abundance of spare time, but he had mostly given in to the temptation of sloth, and spent most of every solar cycle curled up in the sun window with stacks of datapads, greedily devouring novel after novel. So his father hadn't really interrupted anything important, but the request was still unusual. Oblique was a busy mech, and he and his son didn't usually see each other until the evening refuel, sitting together at the end of the impossibly long banquet table and sharing exquisitely refined energon and each other's company.

The doors slid open almost instantly when Mirage rang the door chime at his father's office. He walked through the empty reception area and into the office proper. His optics swept over the office: the portraits of his ancestors on the walls, the tasteful lighting, the furnishings made of rare metals. Pacer, his father's personal attendant, stood in profile in his customary nook in the wall. His expression, as it nearly always was, was that of an ideal servant: impassive while still remaining alert to his master's needs.

Pacer was one of the two dozen or so mechs dedicated to keeping the house and grounds and business running. He lived in the servants' quarters on the grounds with his mate, who was a mechanical servant. Rumor had it that the two were actually _bonded_, and while Mirage was too young to really understand the implications of the term, he grasped readily that it was a laughable, archaic and somewhat distasteful practice. Mirage didn't really think too hard about it one was or another, honestly. He was used to seeing Pacer at his father's side at nearly all times, indispensable and invisible. He gave the mech's presence no more note than he did the great dark desk that separated him from his sire.

Oblique glanced up from his work for a moment and gave a quick nod. "Mirage. Give me a few nano-kliks." He turned his head back to his computer screen and resumed his tapping at the keyboard. Though he and his father did not look exactly the same, the family resemblance was unmistakable: the blue and silver skin, the golden eyes, and the distinctly aristocratic crests framing their faces were shared by not only them but by the portraits surrounding them and Mirage felt a small surge of pride.

Oblique finished typing and folded the screen away, turning his full attention to his progeny. He allowed himself a small smile – regal bearing or not, he was inordinately fond of his son, who was turning out to be everything he could have wished for. He folded his hands and asked, "How are you, Mirage? Are you enjoying your little break from studies?"

"Yes, I'm enjoying it very much, thank you," Mirage answered politely.

"And the new hunting speeder? How's it working out?" Oblique inquired.

"Oh, it's wonderful. Perfect. Lots more power, and the handling is so much smoother. Thank you very much for it." Mirage wondered where this small talk was leading.

"Tell me, Mirage, are you lonely?" Well, _that_ was an unexpected question.

"No, sir." It was the truth, but it would have been Mirage's answer even if it wasn't. It had been impressed upon him by his father early on: "We bestow our company upon others, Mirage. We do not _need_ companionship." And Mirage didn't. He was satisfied with his mostly solitary life, seeing the other Tower youths only on hunts and other social gatherings as dictated to them by their parents.

Oblique steepled his fingers. "I see." _Where is this going_? Mirage wondered. Feelings and emotions were not usually discussion material. His father leaned back slightly and switched to a more casual, conversational tone. "You know, Pacer has been with me since we were both not much older than you are now. Isn't that right, Pacer?"

The black-and-white attendant turned his face toward them briefly. "Quite right, sir," he said smoothly.

Oblique nodded and smiled. "I've been thinking, Mirage… Did you know that Pacer and Swing have a son? He's not much younger than you, actually."

"No, I didn't know that." Actually, it sounded kind of familiar, but it certainly wasn't anything Mirage had paid attention to. He was used to his sire being much more direct than this, but he was starting to follow the conversation's circuitous route. He wasn't sure he liked where he suspected it was going.

"I think you might be of an age when it's time you had an attendant of your own, son." Mirage stayed silent. He was perfectly comfortable with interacting with servants, of course. But having another mech with him at nearly all times? Pacer was like Oblique's obedient shadow, and that seemed like an intrusion to Mirage's ideas of personal space. Oblique raised an optic ridge at him. "Well? What do you think of that?"

"That sounds…fine, sir." It didn't, really, but Mirage would have flung himself off the roof of the mansion headfirst if his sire had suggested that it was appropriate for him to do so.

"Good. I think I'll give you Pacer and Swing's son, then. We'll see how that works out." He gave a satisfied nod and then his demeanor changed. He paused. "There is, however, a slight complication." The tone suggested that he was coming to the part Mirage might not like.

"Oh?" Mirage, already dubious about the situation, kept his voice neutral.

"The youngling can't see."

"Oh?" Mirage's dismay at the situation deepened.

"He's not entirely blind, I understand. But mostly so. A problem with his protoform. Tragic, really. Rather limiting for him." Oblique's words held pity, and roughly the same amount of concern he might have shown for a scratch in his desk. Mirage flicked his gaze over to Pacer, curious to see his reaction to such a serious matter concerning his son being discussed so casually. The black-and-white mech remained still, though his jaw was maybe clenched a little tightly and his gaze at the opposite wall unusually focused.

"Um, forgive me, but..." Mirage allowed his dubiousness to color his voice, finally. "…if he can't see anything, what exactly can he do? I mean, can he really be useful?"

"Well, we don't exactly know," Oblique admitted, "Pacer leads me to understand that he's intelligent and learns quickly, but this is honestly just an experiment. The youngling obviously can't go to school or get a regular job, so we thought we'd try this. See if you can train him to be useful, a good attendant for you. If it doesn't work, or you don't get along, or he ends up being more trouble than he's worth, well, you don't have to keep him. But it's worth a try."

This was shaping up to be easily the lousiest 'gift' Mirage had ever been given. Whatever spin his father was trying to put on it, this sounded a lot like protositting. It was out of character – Oblique always insisted on the best. Their house, their energon, their alternate modes, all the comforts of life – none of it was second rate. And now he was being saddled with some defective commoner? He must have let his thoughts show on his face, because Oblique leaned forward and gazed at him intently.

"Mirage. Son. You and I are fortunate. What we have, what we ARE… is indeed superior. And with our gifts come a certain amount of responsibility. We can't remake all of Cybertron in our image, no, but we would be remiss if we didn't attempt to be a civilizing influence. For the rest of your life, you'll come into contact with mechs who don't possess your level of… quality. It's up to you to raise them up by association, and to not let them drag you down. Part of the burden of nobility, I'm afraid. I know you're a strong enough mech to bear it, even as young as you are." Oblique smiled kindly and Mirage spared another quick glance at Pacer's profile. He hadn't moved at all, but he looked… tight, somehow. The winglike doors that protruded from his shoulders were being held stiffly, and his gaze looked as though it could melt through the bare patch of wall it was aimed at.

Mirage realized an answer was expected of him. "Yes, sir, I'll try."

"Good. Remember: you are to be a good influence on him, not him on you. If he starts dragging you down or holding you back, it's over. But I think it's worth a try. So. That's settled." Oblique looked pleased. He glanced over his shoulder as if remembering suddenly that there was a third mech in the room. "Pacer?"

Pacer's features shed any trace of tenseness and quickly melted back into neutrality. He turned toward his employer. "Yes, sir?" His voice was nothing but attentiveness.

"Would you like to bring him in now?" Oblique asked pleasantly. Pacer nodded.

"Right away, sir."

Mirage experienced a sudden sinking feeling. Right _now_?

Apparently so.

* * *

A note: I'm aware that blind!Jazz has been done into the ground and back again. What can I say? I'm weak.

Also, while the idea of _noblesse oblige_ is a human conceit, I don't think it's too much of a stretch to imagine that such a class-based society as Cybertron would have a similar concept.


	2. Chapter 2

**Noblesse Oblige**

Chapter 2

* * *

As Pacer moved toward a door that led to a side room off the office, Mirage struggled to keep his face from displaying any of the dismay that was coursing through his systems. He wasn't thrilled at the idea of getting a personal attendant – while he knew his father relied absolutely on Pacer, who seemed to function as an extension of Oblique's will, he had a hard time comprehending that sort of constant invasion of privacy.

Even more disconcerting was the idea that his new servant was damaged goods. Almost blind – what a strange concept. As far as he knew, glitches like that were fixable. He'd never heard of a mech going through his whole life that way. Any way he looked at it, this felt like he was getting handed someone else's problem, and it felt unfair.

And…right _now_? He had sort of hoped he'd have at least a day to mull things over and savor the last of his privacy. Apparently not. He should have expected it, of course. While his sire could be very patient indeed (You didn't build and maintain a financial empire by being an instant-gratification sort of mech), when it came to things that COULD be done immediately, that's when he wanted them done. Pacer disappeared into the side room, the door sliding shut behind him. The nano-kliks that passed seemed to stretch into vorns, and Mirage concentrated on resisting the urge to fidget.

After several thousand eons had passed, the door whispered open again and Pacer emerged, his arm crooked so the second black-and-white mech he was leading could hold on to it. Mirage recognized the expression of parental fondness on Pacer's face from his own father. That and concern were warring with the servant's usual countenance of pleasant neutrality.

As for the second mech – his new servant/responsibility – Mirage was at a loss. He'd never seen anything like it. As far as he knew, optics only came in three colors. Most Cybertronians (as far as he knew) had blue ones. Rarer were optics that were golden, like his own. And some, for whatever reason, had red optics. He'd even seen a few mechs with red optics, during his father's business dealings. Those had been unnerving for some reason, but not nearly as unnerving as this.

The new mech's eyes, wide open and set into a silver face, were _white_. Mirage had never imagined anything so unnatural-looking. Their paleness faded into the mech's face and made it look vulnerable and eerie at the same time. Worse, as the newcomer and his father drew closer, Mirage realized that there was something unstable about the optics. From time to time, they flickered, or surged or dimmed suddenly. Mirage felt slightly nauseous and distinctly awkward. He had no idea what to do with his own optics – it was an unpleasant sight, but he couldn't seem to look away.

The pair came to a stop in front of Mirage. The new 'bot angled one side of his face toward him, then the other, then squinted slightly. He finally seemed to give up on getting a good look at Mirage and settled. Then his face broke into a bright smile and he spoke. "Hey. You must be Mirage."

Mirage's tone was haughty. "Looks like it." Ugh, had he really just said 'looks'? How insensitive could he be?

If the new 'bot noticed, he didn't show it. If anything, the smile got wider. "It's great to finally meet you. I'm Jazz."

"So I see." Holy Primus, what was _wrong_ with him? Maybe he'd have to write a program purging all vision-oriented words from his vocabulary later.

A few uncomfortable moments passed, with Jazz grinning at him as Mirage stared while trying not to stare. Oblique broke the silence from his desk.

"We're glad to have you join us, Jazz. Your father has been indispensable to me for nearly all of my life. I'm glad to see the tradition may continue."

Jazz turned his face in the direction of Oblique's voice. "Thank you, sir. I'm gonna try my best."

"Good. I expect nothing less from Pacer's son. Mirage?" Mirage looked at his father. "I must get back to work now. Why don't you take Jazz to your quarters, get him acquainted?"

"Yes, sir," Mirage said.

Pacer turned to his son. "Go with Mirage now. Swing or I will come by to pick you up at the end of the day."

"Okay. Thanks." Jazz turned his face back to Mirage (_Primus, was it permanently set on 'smile'_?), and released his hold on his father's arm. "Shall we?"

There was a pause. "All right. Come on," Mirage said. Jazz reached a hand out toward him, and Mirage recoiled, realizing what he intended.

The blue mech thought he was taking this pretty well, all things considered, but this was too much. He wasn't particularly touchy-feely even with those within his own caste, and the idea of walking around with a glitchy commoner hanging on his arm was intolerable. Jazz would have to find another way. Mirage took a very deliberate step backward.

The smile finally wavered a bit with uncertainty. To Jazz's credit, he recovered quickly. He retracted the offending arm and placed it by his side. He straightened and the smile became less of a greeting, and more quietly self-assured. _That's okay_, it seemed to say, _we can play by your rules. I'm up to the challenge_. "After you," he said out loud.

Mirage turned and headed out the door. After a few steps he glanced over his shoulder. Jazz was following, albeit a little slowly. He was keeping his arms at his sides, but his hands and fingers belied his nervousness by twitching. Mirage slowed his pace and shuffled his feet a bit more than he would usually, giving Jazz at least a noise to follow. Jazz matched his pace and they made their way out of the office and down the hall. It was a halting process – Mirage kept absentmindedly speeding up, then having to slow down to allow Jazz to catch up. Neither 'bot said anything as they hitched their way along.

Mirage was in misery. He hadn't recalled the distance between his quarters and his sire's office being twenty million megamiles long, but apparently it was. After a billion vorns had passed, they finally arrived at Mirage's suite of rooms and he led Jazz inside.

"Well, this is it." He turned and faced his new companion. "This is the sitting room, and there are the doors out onto the balcony. The sunroom is that way, and then there's the storage room. Over there is the way to the recreation room and then my recharge room. Washroom's off to the side of that."

Jazz's face looked as if Mirage had just told a very funny joke. "Eh, I'm afraid you're going to have to be a little more specific than that." His voice was full of unexpected but unmistakable mirth. "'This way' and 'that way' and 'over there'… those don't work so well for me, as far as directions go."

"Oh." Mirage floundered. For all his training in social graces, he couldn't seem to get anything right. "Well, to your left…"

"Hey…" The tone of voice was still amused, but now it seemed to convey that Jazz was taking pity on him. "Why don't we try it this way: you show me around, and I'll get the lay of the land. I'm actually pretty good at getting around once I get things mapped out in my head, I just need a bit of a guide at first. You don't have to touch me or anything, just walk me around and let me know where things are. After that I'll be good to go. Is that okay?"

Mirage resented the slight hint of pity in the tone, as well as the fact that his new servant seemed to be taking control of the situation. He wanted to say something snappy and cruel to put the newcomer in his place, but he managed to realize that something like that wouldn't help anything but his ego. And he didn't have a better suggestion. "All right."

"All the walls, all the doors, all the furniture, anything I can bump into."

"All _right,_" Mirage said a little testily. He moved closer to Jazz, and then walked backward toward the wall. "Follow me…" Jazz followed with a look of intense concentration and measured footsteps. He had allowed himself to bring his arms up in front of him, and held them with his elbows bent and his fingers splayed out, palms down.

Suddenly a sensation washed over Mirage. There was something like an extended muffled thump, and he felt as though tendrils of ice had seized him by the back of the neck and then traveled throughout his body. He jumped.

"What? What was that?" His voice was a much less than dignified yelp. He struggled to control it as he gaped at Jazz. "Are _you_ doing that?" he demanded. The sensation abruptly stopped.

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry." Jazz said apologetically. "Sonic pulse. I'm learning to use acoustic location sensors - they help me figure out where things are. The way the sound waves bounce off things, stuff like that. Do you mind if I use them?"

Of course he minded. "I suppose not…but do you have to use them all the time?"

"No, no," Jazz assured him, "Not all the time. Especially not in familiar places. Once I figure out where everything is here, I won't hardly have to use them at all. As long as you don't move the furniture around too much on me, at least." He was grinning again, his optics flickering wildly.

"Okay." He was prepared this time, his dental plates gritted when the sonic waves washed over him. After a moment, they either subsided slightly or he got used to them. He resumed his backwards walk and Jazz followed. "Well, here's the doorway…"

They made their slow way around the suite of rooms, starting around the walls of each and spiraling inward. Jazz didn't say much as Mirage narrated the furnishings of his rooms aloud, feeling more than a little silly. The silver face wore a look of intense concentration, the pale eyes starting intently (and unsuccessfully, Mirage guessed) at whatever they were looking at. The black hands traced every object they came across.

The journey wasn't perfect – Jazz did end up bumping into some things, with a cheerful "Whoops!" every time. In the sitting room, his hands knocked a stack of datapads off a side table. He unintentionally shoved more datapads aside when examining the recharge berth, and caused a miniature datapad avalanche when he discovered that the desk was almost entirely hidden under a mountain of the things. The tour ended in the sunroom, where Jazz's hands swept over another group of datapads scattered across Mirage's favorite window seat.

"…and that's about it." Mirage finished. He shrugged exaggeratedly so that maybe Jazz would see it. "Do you have any questions?"

"You have a lot of datapads." Jazz commented.

"I like to read." Mirage said, a little defensively. That wasn't true. He LOVED to read. There were very few activities that he would pick over curling up in the sun window surrounded by datapads. He couldn't seem to settle on just one story, either, so he always had multiple datapads open with different novels on them scattered around his suite. Sometimes he'd just happen to be walking by one, and he'd pick it up as if he'd just discovered treasure and drop into a nearby chair with it and lose himself for cycles.

"Oh, yeah, really? Y'know, I think I caught that." Mirage frowned at the gentle hint of sarcasm. _Of all the cheek_… His need to put the intruder in his place reasserted itself.

"You CAN read, can't you?" He inquired archly. He'd meant it as a rhetorical put-down, but as Jazz's expression shifted into a wry smile and his optics glitched, Mirage realized he'd hit home. "…oh."

Jazz shrugged. "Ehhhh, don't worry about it. Kinda goes with the whole glitchy package." He smiled and tapped his temple next to his right optic, which kept going dim. "I mean, I _could_, if… I know how…it's there in my primary programming and everything. I just can't see details well enough to."

"Can't you just jack into things and read them that way?"

"Oh, yeah, I can." Jazz unconsciously fingered one of his data cables, pulling it partially out and then retracting it. "I do that all the time. When I can, at least. Thing is, it gives me a nasty headache. The doctors say it's something about my processors having trouble matching visual input versus stuff I'm jacked into…anyway. So mostly I use it for small, short stuff. Something long like reading a story…" He winced. "…yeah, no, forget it. No can do."

"Ah," was all Mirage could think to say.

"That doesn't mean I don't like stories, though!" Jazz added quickly. "We've got a few datapads at the house, and Pacer and Swing read to me when they have the time."

"Really? Like what?" Mirage's curiosity was piqued. Maybe he'd discovered common ground…

"Well, there's The Covenant, of course…"

"Of course." Mirage groaned inwardly. So they were THAT kind of family. Just his luck, to be stuck with a Covenant-beater. Oblique was a firm atheist and found the notions of faith and religion, well… 'Droll' might be a kind euphemism. 'Stupid' would be more accurate. Fortunately, Jazz seemed to have moved on.

"…and _The Endless Rust Sea_, and _The Incredible Twins_, and _Stargazer'__s Travels_…"

"Oh!" Mirage forgot to be detached and aloof for a moment. "I love _Stargazer__'s Travels_!"

Jazz's smile could have lit Iacon for a stellar cycle. "Me too! We just finished it. I can't stand that it's over. I think it might be my favorite."

"You know…" murmured Mirage, having recovered his decorum, "There IS a sequel."

"Really?" Jazz forced himself to sound less interested than he was. Mirage wasn't fooled.

"Really. I have it. Haven't started it yet, though." Mirage was confusing himself. Was he bragging, teasing…what? Why was he being mean? In all the lectures he'd received on how to treat The Less Fortunate, he didn't remember "rub their low-grade noses in it." Though now that he thought about it, maybe it had been there, between the lines.

"Oh," was all Jazz said. There was an awkward silence. Suddenly Jazz seemed to re-energize. He smiled again and spread his arms wide. "So!" He made a show of looking all around the room. "What do you want me to do?"

"What?" Mirage said stupidly.

"Me!" He thumped his chest once for emphasis. "I'm yours now, so I'll do whatever you want."

_Oh slag_, thought Mirage, _he really is mine, isn't he? I have to think of something for him to do_. He thought of Oblique and Pacer. _For maybe forever I have to think of something for him to do_. Time seemed to stretch out in front of Mirage. _I can't even think of anything for him to do right slagging now…_

"Maybe clean something?" Jazz suggested helpfully, "I'm actually pretty good at cleaning things. Well. As long as nothing's too delicate and I don't have to organize anything. C'mon. What can I do for you?"

_Go away so I can read in peace_, Mirage replied in his head. He supposed he COULD order Jazz to do just that. It would certainly be a relief, but Oblique would be disappointed in him for not trying harder.

He supposed he could have Jazz 'clean something', but the housekeeper had just been through his quarters and everything was pretty much spotless. He could order Jazz to sit quietly in the sitting room while he read and just leave him there until one of his sires came to pick him up. That choice was not without its attractions, but somehow Mirage felt bad just abandoning Jazz to sit alone while Mirage indulged in an activity he couldn't partake in.

_Well, he COULD participate in it, if_…

Impossible. On SO many levels. First, and most importantly, it set a dangerous precedent. They were _not_ equals and they were _not_ friends. To start off their association with an activity that so much as implied otherwise would be a gross breach of conduct, Mirage knew. Plus, it didn't solve the problem of what to do with Jazz for the long-term, it just put it off for a day. And it was sort of…intimate, in a way Mirage never was, even with Oblique. Still. It would solve the problem for the day. Mirage decided to give himself the gift of a day. Didn't he deserve it?

"We'll read." He said, as gruffly as he could manage. "We'll sit and I'll start reading the sequel to _Stargazer's__ Travels _to you. I've been meaning to read it anyway."

It was Jazz's turn to look taken aback and uncomfortable. "Um, are you sure? I don't think that's what I'm supposed to-"

"I'm sure," Mirage said curtly, cutting him off. Then he summoned his best impression of the quintessential spoiled young Tower brat. "Besides," he added haughtily, "it's not up to _you_. _You_ have to do whatever _I_ want to do. And _I _want to read." He swept the datapads littering the window seat to the side, picking out the one he wanted, and sat in his customary place, leaning against the right-hand side of the nook. He glanced impatiently at Jazz, who remained standing and looking slightly confused. "Did you not hear me? I said, 'sit'!" Jazz glanced down and started to lower himself to the floor. Mirage gave an exasperated sigh.

"Not on the floor! There!" He pointed, and then realized he needed to elaborate. "The other side of the seat. There's plenty of room."

"Well, if it's what you want…" But the smile had started to creep back to Jazz's face.

"It is." He said firmly. He'd worry about tomorrow tomorrow. He watched as Jazz felt for the edges of the window, then lowered himself into place on the cushioned seat, mirroring Mirage's posture. He waited until his new acquaintance had settled. "Ready?"

Jazz tilted his head and gave an inscrutable half-smile. "Yup."

Mirage tapped the surface of the pad and it lit up. He started to read, feeling self-conscious at first. Eventually that wore off as he became engrossed in the story himself, and the two youths stayed there until the light coming in the window was red from the sunset, and Swing rang the door chime to pick Jazz up and take him home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Noblesse Oblige**

Chapter 3

* * *

Going into recharge had never been a problem for Mirage. He'd read plenty of stories with tortured heroes who tossed and turned in their berths at night, hounded by memories of the past and worries for the future. Sometimes when these troubled mechs finally were able to go offline, their processors would feed them jumbled bits of data strung together called 'dreams'.

The dreams could take the form of stories, or be completely nonsensical. They could be uplifting, or terrifying, or even (In the case of some heroic 'bots) visionary. The whole notion seemed sort of romantic to Mirage, but altogether fanciful. At night, he always fell into recharge nearly the moment after he stretched out on his berth, secure in the knowledge that he was the heir to the greatest estate on Cybertron. Everything he saw or touched, he owned, and his life was completely under control.

At least that's how it had always been. Until the night after he had been given his new attendant. For the first time in his life, Mirage was having trouble going into recharge and he found that the experience wasn't romantic in the least. He kept adjusting his body, but no position seemed comfortable. When he would find a position he thought he could live with, he would suddenly find that he had an itch he needed to scratch, and it would start all over again.

Worse, his processors wouldn't. Shut. Down. His mind bombarded him with questions and accusations. _Why me? Why him? You didn't act much like a proper aristocrat today, now did you? What would Oblique do if he found out you spent the day reading to your new servant? What do I do with him tomorrow? And the day after that? How do I regain the upper hand in this relationship? Pacer has been at Oblique's side for eons. EONS. That's what this is, it's a life sentence. Will my time ever be my own again?_

He wished he could tear out his cerebral cortex and throw it across the room. Finally, his optics offlined and he fell into recharge. And then it started; not a series of disjointed images, but a whole chunk of memory, perfectly preserved:

* * *

He was a sparkling again, with endless exuberance and unchecked enthusiasm toward everything. He was young enough to be instantly forgiven for any offense he might have unknowingly committed, but it didn't really matter as he could do no wrong. His father was the handsomest, noblest, kindest mech ever to live, and he doted on his son. Mirage was the pet of all the servants, who welcomed the brightness that a new sparkling brought to the whole estate.

This afternoon, he was cavorting around the grounds under the watchful optic of Warder, the head groundskeeper. As Warder tended to some boring grown-up task or other, Mirage ran in happy circles, reenacting an imaginary space battle. He played the part of the good guys and the bad guys both with equal enthusiasm. He was a downed starfighter, engines ablaze, careening out of control, when he saw it.

He was too young to have been on his first hunt yet, but he knew what a tubofox was. The house had plenty of paintings and sculptures depicting turbofox hunts, and he'd seen pictures of them on datapads. He'd even seen a couple in real life, but only for an instant, as they disappeared swiftly behind an outcropping or into a hole. He was fascinated by them – they were so beautiful, so fast. He had always wondered what it would be like to hold one.

And now, here was a real live one! Mirage blinked his optic sensors on and off a few times to be sure he wasn't seeing things. No, it was real. And it wasn't running away. Mirage crept up to it. It was as beautiful as he had imagined, but he realized something was wrong with it. It lay on its side, staring fearfully up at him with bright optics, making soft, high-pitched whimpering noises. Mirage studied it. Its back leg, he decided, something was wrong with one of its back legs. And maybe one of the thrusters too – it kept sputtering as the creature tried to stand, and failed.

Mirage ached at the thought of the turbofox's pain, but at the same time, his heart leapt. He'd always wanted a turbofox, and now he could have one! He could take it home, nurse it back to health (surely the leg wouldn't be too hard to fix), and in return it would love him. He'd have a loyal, beautiful, faithful pet. What would be a good name for it? Starlight? That was perfect! It suited the graceful creature who would remain by his side.

But first he had to help it, take care of it. Warder would know what to do. He knew everything about turbofoxes. "Warder!" He yelled, "Come here!" He kept his optics fixed on the turbofox, Starlight, as he heard the sound of running footsteps approaching behind him.

"Young Master! Are you all right? What's wrong? Oh – I see."

There was a sudden loud CRACK and Mirage jumped, startled. What he saw next took a few moments to register. The fox lay still, its optics dark and a thin tendril of smoke rising from a hole in the side of its elegant head. It wasn't making noises anymore.

Mirage turned to Warder, aghast, in time to see the small built-in pistol attachment sliding back into place under the green metal of the groundskeeper's forearm. His broad face was calm, as though nothing had just happened.

"WHAT?!" Mirage screamed in fury and anguish. He threw himself at Warder, kicking and pummeling him with his fists. "What did you do that for? Why? It was alive! I wanted to keep it! You killed it! I hate you! I'll have you fired!" He continued his frantic verbal and physical assault, but he only had the strength of a sparkling and Warder was a very large and sturdy mech. For a while he stood there and allowed Mirage to vent his rage harmlessly. Then he reached down and caught the sparkling gently but firmly by the shoulders.

"Young Master! Mirage. Listen to me." He partially knelt so he could look the sparkling in the optics. Eventually the thrashing and howling subsided, and the young aristocrat stilled, his golden optics staring Warder back in confusion and anger. "Please understand. That turbofox was in pain. I did what I had to do. It's not hurting anymore."

"But we could have fixed it! I wanted to keep him-"

Warder shook his large head solemnly. "No. It doesn't work that way, Mirage. Some things aren't so easy to fix. And turbofoxes – they're wild things. They're meant to run free. You can't keep them as pets – it wouldn't be right, it wouldn't be fair to the fox. It's not right for one to live in pain, or cooped up. They deserve to run free, and when their end comes, they deserve for it to be a noble one, pain-free and swift. Do you understand?"

Mirage didn't understand _anything_. What Warder was saying made sense, kind of, but it didn't stop the sick, wrenching feeling inside. Finally he nodded slowly. "I understand."

Warder gave him a gentle smile. "Good. I knew you would. You're real smart, Young Master." He straightened and patted the blue mech on the shoulder affectionately. "Now, why don't you run on back and play in the house? I'll take care of this here. Okay?"

Reluctantly, Mirage nodded and turned away. He trudged toward the house at first, then broke into a trot, and finally ran as fast as he could away, the processors of his young mind working frantically in an effort to forget the whole thing.

* * *

Mirage blinked awake. _Ugh_. He felt slightly sick. Was that a dream? If so, no thanks, he could do without them. Why the incident with the turbofox? He hadn't thought of that in a long time. He made a point of not thinking about it. His mind began to suggest reasons, draw parallels, and Mirage sat up suddenly, shaking his head and quashing his thoughts. Enough of _that_. His internal chronometer told him it was early, but the idea of lying back down, much less going into recharge, wasn't tempting in the least.

Besides, early was good. The upside of all his thinking last night was that he'd come up with a plan. It wasn't a very good plan, but Mirage was beginning to realize that long-term planning wasn't his strong suit. Why should it be? His life was entirely mapped out for him. Enjoy his youth, learn his lessons, and eventually ascend to take control of the family businesses and become master of the House of Kallin. No reason to question that, but it seemed that Mirage's skills were seriously underdeveloped when it came to thinking creatively ahead. So his tactic was strictly short-term.

The plan was: avoid Jazz. He couldn't keep it up forever, of course, but for now it was brilliant. It capitalized on Mirage's skills; he was an excellent sneak. No one saw him if he didn't want to be seen.

But the plan relied on getting out of his quarters early in the morning, before Jazz was deposited there to tail him around for the rest of the solar cycle. Plenty of time if he left now. He headed out the door, mind full of ways to occupy himself. He emerged into the hall, did a quick doubletake, and screamed.

Mirage was not accustomed to being startled. To the contrary, he was used to being the one to quietly appear at another mech's elbow or from around a corner, almost invariably with satisfying results. Being so wrapped up in his thoughts, the presence of another person where he did not expect one to be jarred him into a terrified knee-jerk response.

It was only a little bit of comfort that Jazz was yelling too. He was sitting on the floor of the hall next to the door to Mirage's quarters, back against the wall and knees drawn up. Mirage throttled the irrational panic into submission and shut up, noting with embarrassment that Jazz had recovered his composure first. The white optics blinked on and off and Jazz rubbed at them a little blearily. He had, Mirage realized, been in recharge.

"What the frag are you doing there?!" Mirage demanded. Oblique did not approve of foul language, but Mirage decided this occasion called for it.

"Hey, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to freak you out." The blind 'bot held his hands out in a 'peace' gesture. "Both Pacer and Swing had to be at work real early, and I can't make it over here on my own yet. So Swing dropped me by and I figured I'd just wait for you to wake up. I didn't think you'd be up 'til later…a lot later."

Mirage was grumpy. "Hmph. Well, as you can see, I'm up now." Mirage winced. _There I go again with the 'see'. You'd think I could stop using words like that._

But Jazz was smiling as he stood up. "Yeah, I see that." Mirage gave him a hard look. _Did he say that on purpose?_ Jazz gave a little knowing laugh. "Hey, it's okay. 'Look', 'see', 'view', whatever, they're just words. They're figures of speech, they don't bother me. I use 'em. So don't worry about it, you don't have to beat yourself up over it."

Mirage was dumbfounded. How in Primus' name had Jazz known exactly what he was thinking? Besides that, once again it was starting to seem like Jazz was the one in control of the situation. He had to figure out how to reassert himself, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out how. He realized he'd been silent too long when Jazz started talking again.

"So, what are we going to do today?" he asked, spreading his arms. _We_. Mirage felt his plans for a peaceful day alone crumble into dust and blow away.

"Well…" Mirage considered. He didn't know what to do with Jazz specifically, so he might as well just go ahead and do things he would have done himself and let Jazz tag along. Hopefully, he wouldn't get in the way too much and maybe Mirage would be struck with inspiration as to what to do with him. "It's not that much fun, but I need to do some work on my hunting speeder…"

"Okay," said Jazz agreeably. "Lead the way."

Mirage moved off and felt Jazz fall into halting step behind him. _Oh good_, Mirage thought, _just what I need. Another one of these long, dysfunctional mini-parades. _He remembered to slow his stride down and shuffle his feet for Jazz's benefit.

"Hey…" Jazz said softly.

Mirage glanced back. "What?"

"The speed's good, but you don't have to stomp like that. I can hear you just fine."

"Oh. Okay." Mirage resumed a slowed-down version of his normal walk. Jazz seemed to have a knack for knowing exactly what to say. And every time, it just seemed to make things worse.

Mirage set his jaw and led the pair out into the morning sunshine.

* * *

A note on time – I'm mixing and matching units from different continuities to meet my needs. As such:

nano-klik: 1 second

klik: 1.2 minutes

breem: 8.3 minutes

cycle: 1.25 hours

solar cycle: a Cybertronian day

deca-cycle: 3 weeks

stellar cycle: a year

vorn: 83 years

I'll probably use the terms 'eon' and 'millennium', as they're typically used. And possibly use the term 'day' colloquially, for those times when saying 'mid-solar-cycle' is just impossibly clumsier than saying 'midday'.


	4. Chapter 4

Noblesse Oblige

Chapter Four

* * *

The walk to the hangar where the speeders and other vehicles were kept was proving to be every bit as long and uncomfortable as Mirage had imagined. Jazz wasn't saying anything, but Mirage was more than aware of the other 'bot's presence a few paces behind his left shoulder. His air vents puffed out a little sigh. This would be so much quicker if they could just transform and drive over. A curious thought sparked in his mind. He halted suddenly, turning to Jazz, who stumbled a little in order not to walk straight into Mirage.

"Do you even _have_ an alternate form?" Mirage asked.

"Of course I do." The reply was good-natured, but Mirage was pretty sure he wasn't imagining the offended undercurrent to the other's tone. "I just don't really get to use it much. Or at all. Not being able to see at driving speeds…well, you can imagine. 'Danger to myself and others', 'an all that."

"Show me," Mirage ordered, curiosity getting the best of him.

"Okay." Jazz stepped back a few paces to give himself room, and then his body shifted until there was a car sitting in front of Mirage. "So? What d' you think?"

Mirage considered. Though Jazz's bipedal form was black-and-white, the mostly white car's predominant trim color was bright blue. He appeared fairly aerodynamic and had a high, perky spoiler. Jazz was reasonably quick-looking, though nowhere near as sleek and elegant as Mirage's own alternate mode.

"How fast are you?" Mirage asked, curious.

"I've no idea. Not really allowed to drive, remember? And that definitely includes testing out my top speeds. I'm curious myself, but I guess that's just going to remain one of life's mysteries."

"Oh. Right. You can transform back now." Jazz's transformation sequences were a little clumsy, Mirage noted. He guessed it was because they didn't get used much – why transform into something you can't use?

"What was that about?" Jazz asked, back in bipedal form. Mirage turned away and resumed his walk to the hangar bays.

"Just making sure you didn't transform into something embarrassing for me to be seen with."

"And?"

"It'll do." Mirage decided to ignore the soft chuckles coming from behind his shoulder.

When they reached the hangar, Mirage immediately picked out the yellow-orange form of Sprocket, the servant in charge of maintaining the vehicles. When Sprocket saw them approaching, he turned and waved with a big smile. Mirage allowed himself a small smile in return – he had a bit of a soft spot for Sprocket, despite the servant's tendency to be a little more familiar than was appropriate. He never seemed to have that undercurrent of fear of Mirage that was proper for a servant. And yet, Mirage never really felt the need to flex his cables around Sprocket to show his superiority. It was kind of relaxing, to be honest, to have one servant he didn't feel the need to bully.

"Good morning Mir- Sir!" Almost all the servants seemed to be having trouble with how to address Mirage. He wasn't 'Master' yet – that was Oblique. Many of the servants who had called him by his given name as a sparkling were now sensing that it was no longer appropriate to do so. So now he was 'Sir' or Young Master'. Come to think of it, he would probably need to have a talk with Jazz about how to address him. He wasn't sure what to say, though. Pacer called his father 'Sir' and 'Master' in public, and when they were conducting business, but Mirage had heard him address his father as 'Oblique' more than once in private. He pushed that train of thought aside for later. Sprocket was still speaking.

"…was beginning to wonder when I'd see you back around here."

Mirage smiled. "I was going to come by yesterday, but something came up." Remembering the 'something' at his shoulder, Mirage felt the need to acknowledge him, even though he was just an attendant. "Sprocket, this is Jazz."

Both servants looked highly amused. "I know Jazz!" Sprocket laughed. "Everyone knows Jazz! How's it going, Jazz? How's the new gig treating you?"

Jazz grinned. "So far, so good." He turned to Mirage. "We _do_ both live in the 'quarters together, after all."

"Of course." _Oh, right_. He'd forgotten all about that. And what was with him, introducing a servant, anyway?

"You're here for the speeder?" Sprocket asked. Mirage nodded and the servant led the way to the bay. "I was about to give up on you and do the work myself."

"Well, as you can see, I'm here." It was Sprocket's job, of course, to do all the maintenance on the various family vehicles, but he believed that Mirage should at least know how to do the work himself, and Mirage actually agreed. Even if he let Sprocket eventually do all the work for him, he didn't want it to be because he was _incapable_ of doing it himself. Besides, he actually kind of enjoyed working on the speeder.

They reached the bay, and Sprocket punched in the code to raise the door and flipped on the lights. "Well, I'll leave you to it, Sir. You know where to find me if you need me." Mirage nodded and Sprocket strolled off, leaving Mirage and Jazz alone with the speeder. It was nearly brand-new, much larger and more powerful than Mirage's last model. He'd only taken it out for practice, so far, but he was sure the extra power and improved handling would give him the edge in the next turbofox hunt.

"Well, here it is." He didn't bother to keep the pride out of his voice as he stepped aside to allow Jazz into the bay with him. Jazz nodded and stepped up to the speeder.

"May I?" The attendant held up his hands in query.

"Go ahead." Mirage shrugged. He watched as Jazz touched the speeder, the look of concentration back on his face as he felt along the elegant curves and lines. There was the occasional thrum of sonics. Jazz made his careful way around the vehicle, then stepped back.

"Very nice," he said appreciatively, but without any trace of the envy Mirage realized he'd been hoping to elicit. "So, what needs to be done with it?"

"Oh, it just needs to be cleaned."

"Hey! I can do that!" It was the oddest thing, Mirage thought, that the idea of cleaning something could bring forth so bright a smile. "Just show me what to do."

Mirage fetched the caddy with the cleaning supplies in it, and pressed each of the various bottles and cans and cloths and brushes into his attendant's hands, explaining what each was for, how to use them, and in what order. He got Jazz settled on the right side of the speeder, while he took the left. At first, he had trouble concentrating on his own work, his attention continually darting to Jazz's hands. He was sure that blind mech would do something to indicate that he wasn't actually capable of such detailed work.

It turned out, though, that Jazz hadn't been lying. He was good at cleaning. His fingers sought out even the smallest crevices, expertly working solvents and polishes into them, and skillfully brushing them out. He didn't miss a spot – in fact, he tended to be a little redundant, cleaning areas twice to be absolutely certain he hadn't missed anything.

With Jazz's attention diverted, Mirage allowed himself the luxury of looking at him –_ really_ looking at him – for the first time. He did look a little like Pacer, but his demeanor reminded Mirage more of Swing, though he didn't know Swing nearly as well. His silver face was framed by a black helmet with a center ridge and two knobby antennae. The rest of his body was fairly slim and spare, and actually moved with a certain amount of grace, at least when he was comfortable.

Mirage was relieved that his new attendant didn't have the winglike doors protruding from his shoulder blades, like Pacer. Mirage had once thought doorwings on a mech looked rather dashing, and had told his father so. Oblique had looked scandalized and informed his son that doorwings were 'gauche'. Mirage had been surprised at first, but Oblique was always right, and so Mirage came to agree with him.

All in all, Mirage decided, his new servant was actually kind of good-looking, in a common sort of way. Or he would have been if it wasn't for those awful white optics. Which, he realized with a start, were gazing straight at him. Jazz had caught him staring.

"Am I doing something wrong? Do you need something?" Jazz asked.

"No. No, you're doing fine. Keep going." Jazz resumed his rubbing. Mirage noticed for the first time that his eyes weren't entirely white. There was a tiny, tiny hint of icy blue there if you looked hard enough for it. Which Mirage had been doing. _Why shouldn't I be able to look at my own servant? _Mirage felt defensive and embarrassed. He returned his concentration to his task determinedly.

It didn't take too long for them to finish cleaning the speeder. "You can stop now. We're done," he told Jazz, and the other 'bot gave the fender a farewell swipe and stepped back.

"Well, how does it look?" he asked Mirage.

"Beautiful." A tendril of temptation was beginning to creep into Mirage's mind. The side of his processor that reminded him that he needed to establish a professional relationship with definite boundaries argued with the side that really, really wanted to show off. The showoff side won. "Do you want to ride it?"

Jazz chuckled. "Yeah, right. I don't think I'd make the best driver."

"I didn't mean for you to drive." Mirage rolled his optics. "I'll drive, and you can ride behind me. It's big enough for two."

"Um, I dunno…" Jazz had the same dubious look he had worn when Mirage had proposed reading to him the day before.

"Oh, you know you want to. What are you afraid of? Stop being such a sparkling." Mirage goaded Jazz. He realized what he was doing: trying to make the other mech jealous of him. It was sort of a game he was used to playing with the other Tower brats: overly polite displays of lavish possessions or newly acquired skills meant to demonstrate one's superiority and elicit those delicious displays of envy. He had been unconsciously playing it with Jazz, but the new mech didn't seem to be playing along. Sure, he showed appreciation, but not jealousy. Which didn't make sense – while Mirage didn't know the details of his new companion's private life, it was obvious to Mirage that his own was much, much better. He found it disconcerting that Jazz was refusing to rise to the bait.

"I'm _not _being a sparkling." Jazz sounded a touch petulant. "I'm just- Well, if you're sure that's what you want."

"It is." Besides, Mirage really did want to go for a ride. Showing off was just a bonus. He reached out to the handlebars and the speeder came to life with a purr. Mirage walked it outside with Jazz trailing along behind.

Hunting speeders were a type of hovercraft, providing a smooth ride that wouldn't be possible with a wheeled vehicle, especially over what was sometimes rough terrain. They did, however, have groundspikes that could descend suddenly from their undersides to make contact with the ground and allow for hairpin turns and other exacting maneuvering. Mirage climbed aboard and slid an interfacing cable out from his side, plugging it into a port. You could control the speeder three ways: manually, with the handlebars; through the interface; or with your legs – the side panels had sensors that registered subtle leg movements which were a bit tricky to learn. The last two methods of control were essential for turbofox hunting, where you needed to be able to control your ride hands-free as you steadied your rifle for the shot. The interface also provided a failsafe: if the jack was ripped from the port mid-ride, the speeder would shut down.

"Come on up." Mirage jerked his head at Jazz to indicate that he should join him.

"Um, okay." Clearly Jazz wasn't sure exactly _how_ to climb up. It dawned on Mirage that this activity was going to require contact between them. A lot of it. Which was a very solid reason why this was a mistake, but Mirage wasn't going to back down now.

"Come here." Mirage directed. Jazz moved closer. "Take my hand." They touched for the first time, black fingers curling around his blue ones in a grip that was surprisingly firm. "Now, hold the seat with your other hand and swing your leg over." Jazz pushed himself up and Mirage pulled. It wasn't a graceful procedure, but the black-and-white 'bot ended up sitting behind him. "You're going to have to hold on."

"To what?" Jazz asked dryly, patting the smooth sides of the speeder.

"To me, I guess." Mirage mentally steeled himself. He felt the tentative touch of hands at his sides. "You're going to have to hang on harder than that. This thing goes pretty fast." The grip grew firmer. "Are you ready?"

"Sure," said Jazz, gamely.

Mirage accelerated suddenly and the speeder leapt forward. Jazz didn't make a sound, but he abandoned his tentative hold on Mirage's sides in favor of wrapping his arms firmly around the blue mech's waist. Mirage's discomfort at the intimacy of the touch was almost entirely eclipsed by his satisfaction at being able to unnerve Jazz.

As they headed out into the grounds, Jazz's hold on him relaxed a bit. They rode in silence for awhile before Mirage called back to Jazz.

"How do you like it?" He raised his voice above the purr of the engines and the rush of the wind.

"It's great." Still no trace of the envy Mirage was looking for, but Jazz's voice was full of sincere appreciation. "I've never gone this fast." Mirage spared a glance back and found his companion's face rapt, beaming into the wind.

"That's not even the best part. Hang on." Jazz's grip on him tightened, and Mirage engaged the groundspike and executed a sharp 90-degree turn, rocketing them off in another direction. This time Jazz did yelp, but it quickly dissolved into a happy laugh. Mirage couldn't help but grin, himself, and he was glad he was facing forward so the other mech couldn't see it.

"Do that again?" Jazz requested giddily.

"Oh, I'll do even better." Mirage swung them 360 degrees this time, and Jazz gave a whoop of glee. "I knew you'd enjoy this," Mirage told him, smug.

"And you were definitely right," Jazz agreed.

They continued their ride, zigzagging and circling around the property, cresting over rises, jumping small trenches, cornering around outcroppings and skimming cliff edges. Sometimes Mirage would tell Jazz when he was about to make a sudden move, and sometimes he wouldn't, enjoying the ability to surprise the other mech, and finally feeling a little bit in control of the situation. Jazz didn't seem to mind at all, rewarding Mirage's impulsive maneuvers with gasps or yelps. His delighted laugh returned again and again and Mirage was surprised to find that he wasn't irritated by it.

They were cruising straight across a flat stretch dotted with tall, slim outcroppings when Jazz's grip on Mirage tightened unexpectedly. "Mirage, stop," he said, in a tone of voice Mirage had never heard from him before. There was no amusement or teasing in it at all; it was an order.

"What?" Mirage was confused.

"The speeder. Stop. Now." Jazz sounded deadly serious.

"What are you talking about? What's the matter with you?" Mirage kept going. If this was a game, it wasn't particularly funny.

Now Jazz's serious tone was colored with panic. "Please! You have to stop! Something's wrong, I can hear it! Slow down! Please – !" Jazz's plea turned into a frightened scream as everything went haywire. Everything happened in a fraction of a nano-klik – the right side turbine failed abruptly with an explosive puff. The left kept going full speed, and they spun out of control, wrenching apart and Mirage couldn't tell whose screams were whose as he was airborne and then everything went black.

When Mirage onlined his optics again, he found himself with his nose to the ground, splayed out on his belly. He hurt – what had happened? _Oh, yeah_. He raised his head. Some distance away, Jazz was already on his hands and knees, shaking his head, stunned. The black-and-white mech sat back on his heels, white optics flaring as he looked wildly around. "Mirage! Where are you?" He called in alarm. Mirage groaned inwardly. He was in no shape to take care of a helpless 'bot right now. Still, he had to answer Jazz. He managed a grunt. Jazz's optics swung around and squinted as they found him.

"Mirage!" Mirage watched as the other mech half-stumbled, half-crawled over to him and sank to his knees. "There you are!" Suddenly Mirage felt himself being pulled up. "Are you okay? What's wrong? Where are you hurt? Mirage!" The black hands flew over Mirage's frame, frantically searching for injuries, and the wide optics were sparking erratically. Jazz's face was focused in concern.

If the situation wasn't so humiliating (or if it was happening to someone else), Mirage might have laughed. Of all the ironies; here was a blind mech sporting injuries that were the result of an accident Mirage had caused, and it was _Mirage_ he was worried about. Mirage's embarrassment deepened. He willed himself to disappear, but when that failed, he concentrated on getting his vocal module online.

"Jazz. Jazz!" He caught the other's wrists. "It's okay. I'm fine." And he was fine, he realized. His internal scans were coming up relatively clean, all things considered. Sure, he was scuffed and dented, but everything was shockingly minor for such a high-speed crash. "I'm fine," he reiterated, more confidently.

Jazz's vents hissed a sigh and he stilled. "You are? That's good." Relief was evident in his voice and he allowed a smile to break through the worry on his face. There was a pause.

"Um, are _you_ all right?" Finally Mirage remembered that he wasn't the only one who had just been in an accident. He had the grace to feel ashamed that it had taken him so long to even wonder about the other's state.

Jazz looked surprised, as though he had forgotten himself. "Um, I think so." He considered for a moment, running scans and feeling the dents in his chassis. Then he nodded. "Yeah, I'm pretty much good." He gave a sympathetic expression. "I'm sorry about your speeder."

Mirage sighed. "Don't be. It's not your fault. You tried to warn me. How did you know something was wrong, anyway?"

"I heard it. My audio sensors are real sensitive. The sound in the turbine changed." He shrugged. "Not that it did any real good."

"It would have if I had listened to you." The words were out of Mirage's mouth before he could stop them, and he clamped his jaw shut. That was humiliatingly close to an apology. Jazz seemed to know better than to acknowledge it as such, and moved on.

"So, what now?" Jazz asked.

"Well, either we get up and walk out of here – which will take a long time – or I call someone to come and pick us up." Either way, he was in for trouble. Slag it, might as well get it over with. Mirage checked his comm and found that it worked. He paused, and then settled on what seemed to be the least unpleasant choice and activated the comm. "Sprocket? It's Mirage."

"Mirage?" Sprocket's voice was surprised, then concerned. "Is everything okay? What do you need?"

"Actually, the speeder malfunctioned and we crashed. We're both fine!" he hastily assured the rush of inquiry, "We're okay. We just need you to come and pick us up." He gave Sprocket the coordinates and was grateful that instead of asking questions, Sprocket simply assured him that he was on his way and clicked off.

Mirage turned to Jazz. "And now we wait." He eased his aching frame into a more comfortable sitting position and his companion did the same. Mirage was under no illusions. Even as relaxed a 'bot as Sprocket was, he'd have no choice but to tell Oblique what had happened. And then they were in for it, or at least Mirage was. He actually hoped Jazz didn't get in too much trouble – it had been Mirage's idea, after all. He glanced at Jazz, who was looking thoughtful. Mirage felt like he should say something, but he couldn't think of what, so he maintained the silence and settled in to wait.


	5. Chapter 5

**Noblesse Oblige**

Chapter Five

* * *

The fallout from the speeder crash went only partially as Mirage had predicted. They didn't have to wait long before Sprocket pulled up in the transport. The yellow-orange mech was obviously relieved to see for himself that the two young 'bots really were all in one piece. He barely spared a glance for the wrecked speeder, curtly saying that he'd come back for it. The ride home was mostly quiet. Sprocket glanced over his shoulder at Mirage.

"You know I had to call your father, right?" he said quietly.

"I know." Mirage stared out the window. As they approached the house, he saw that the expected small crowd had gathered to await their arrival. Pacer and Swing were standing close, with their heads together. Oblique stood apart with his arms crossed across his chest, looking typically regal. The rest of the crowd consisted of servants, who Mirage suspected were simply curious onlookers.

"Here you go. Good luck." Sprocket's voice was warm and sympathetic as he pulled to a stop.

"Thanks." Mirage and Jazz spoke together, and climbed out of the car. The swarm descended and they were swept apart. Mirage found himself held tight in Oblique's arms. He returned the embrace, suddenly feeling weak and shaky. For a long moment, his sire was silent. When he spoke, his deep, aristocratic voice had a hoarse edge to it that Mirage had never heard before.

"Mirage. You're all right. Thank Primacron."

"Oblique, Sir?" Mirage glanced up at Pacer's voice. He was standing with Swing, who was fussing over Jazz. "If it's all right…"

"Of course," said Oblique. "Take him home. You and Swing take the rest of the day off as well."

"Thank you, Sir." Pacer turned back to his family and he and Swing herded Jazz off toward the servants' quarters. Mirage watched them go, until Oblique's voice recalled him.

"Mirage? Are you able to walk back to your own quarters?"

"Yes, sir," Mirage managed. He allowed his father's hand on his back to guide him toward the house.

"I've called the doctor. He should be here right away," Oblique said.

"I'm fine…" Mirage protested weakly. Oblique frowned.

"Nonsense. You've been in an accident; you need to be checked out." Mirage knew better than to argue.

They arrived back at his suite, and he and Oblique both sank into chairs in the sitting room. Mirage braced himself for a storm of fury, but it didn't come. When asked, Mirage related a simplified version of events, making sure to emphasize Jazz's lack of responsibility. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to protect his new attendant, but he did realize that the servant had much more to lose than he did if the blame fell to him.

Oblique simply nodded and murmured, and then changed his line of questioning to the maintenance of the speeder. Mirage realized that his father was trying to discern whether or not Sprocket was at fault, and he hastily assured him that he wasn't. It was true – the speeder was nearly brand-new, it had to be a manufacturing flaw. Oblique looked stormy, but was clearly relieved to have someone to blame and Mirage knew that whoever had sold him the speeder was in for some serious unpleasantness.

When the doctor arrived, Oblique remained for the examination. He relaxed slightly at the news that all of Mirage's injuries were minor and cosmetic. They would heal on their own, but Oblique wouldn't hear of it. He left his son to the doctor's care, and after having his dents eased out (and a healthy dose of painkillers), Mirage felt much better. He was then turned over to a team of attendants who spent the rest of the afternoon and evening scrubbing him, retouching his paint, then buffing him to a high gloss.

By the time he joined Oblique for their evening energon, Mirage was feeling like a slightly creaky version of his regular self. They made polite small talk until it was time to retire for the night. As they pushed their chairs back from the table and stood to leave, Oblique spoke.

"Mirage." Mirage looked up hesitantly. Oblique was silent for a moment. "I was worried about you today, son."

"I'm sorry, sir," Mirage said meekly.

"I'm just glad that you're all right." Another pause. "Mirage, I trust your judgment." He didn't need to add, _don't let me down_. He nodded at his son and left.

Mirage retreated to his quarters. His second solar cycle with Jazz, and things just kept getting weirder. The doctor had left him a small cube of something to ease the pain and help him recharge, and Mirage swallowed it gratefully before easing himself into his berth. He fell into recharge quickly.

By the time Mirage awoke, it was nearly midday. It took a moment for him to remember the events of the last solar cycle. He groaned and sat up, pleased that he was only a little sore. He shuffled out into the suite and puttered around for a breem or so, feeling like something was out of place that he couldn't put his finger on. Then an idea struck him and he crossed to the door and opened it, sticking his head out into the hallway.

Jazz looked up from his place on the floor. He gave Mirage an uncharacteristically shy smile. "Hey."

Mirage frowned at him. "How long have you been out here?"

"Awhile."

Mirage stepped into the hall with a sigh. "If you're going to keep getting here early, you might as well come in when you do. Get up, I'll teach you the access code."

Jazz slowly got to his feet. Mirage took his hand and guided it to the control panel. He helped Jazz trace the outline, and then showed him the code. Jazz practiced punching in the code a few times, then turned to Mirage.

"Does this mean I'm not fired?" Jazz asked.

"What? No. I mean, yes! I mean…why would you think that?"

Jazz shrugged. "I asked Pacer, and Pacer asked Oblique, and Oblique said it was up to you."

"He did?" Part of Mirage stood up and cheered. Here it was, the perfect opportunity to ditch Jazz. Yet somehow, he found that he didn't want to. He heard himself say, "Stop worrying. You're not fired. Come on in."

Jazz's smile brightened until it looked like the one Mirage recognized. "I'm glad," he said, and followed Mirage into the sitting room.

Jazz was moving very stiffly, Mirage noted. In the brighter light of the sitting room, he could see that while the scuffs and scrapes of the previous solar cycle were gone, Jazz sported a hefty collection of dents and small cracks to his chassis. Upon closer inspection, he noticed that the patches and touch-ups on Jazz's paintwork were much less than smooth. Mirage frowned a little. He'd have to do something about that; if Jazz was going to be his attendant, he couldn't go around with patchy paint. The black-and-white 'bot was an unusual enough accessory as is.

"What is it?" Jazz had noticed his scrutiny.

"Nothing." Mirage crossed to a chair and slumped into it. "Have a seat."

Jazz complied and only winced a little as he lowered himself into the chair. "So you're all okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine," Mirage answered, "what about you? What did the doctor say?"

"Doctor?" Jazz cocked his head at Mirage questioningly. _Oh_.

"Never mind. How are you?"

Jazz gave a brash grin. "Oh, I'm great." He flexed his arms and bit back another wince. "A couple solar cycles to work the kinks out, and you'll never be able to tell."

There was an awkward silence, which Jazz broke. "So," he said dryly, "What do you want to do _today_?" He spread his arms wide, clearly parodying himself.

Mirage couldn't remember the last time he had an honest laugh at something that was actually funny. _This isn't very aristocratic_, he thought as he dissolved into helpless giggles. Jazz, apparently having no compunctions about laughing at his own jokes, was snickering too. It took Mirage awhile to recover, but he wasn't trying very hard.

"You know," he said at length, "I really don't want to do much of _anything_ today."

Jazz shrugged cheerfully. "You're the boss."

The silence that followed actually felt companionable, not awkward. Jazz relaxed further into his chair, leaning back. It wasn't really a pose that was appropriate for an attendant, but then, Mirage's posture at the moment wasn't really appropriate for an aristocrat. He decided that everyone got a pass today.

"Can I ask you a question?" Mirage didn't remember deciding to speak.

"Sure." Jazz nodded agreeably.

"Why don't Pacer and Swing get your optics fixed?" _Well, that certainly was blunt_.

"They can't afford it," Jazz said simply.

"What?" Mirage understood that things cost money, but he didn't understand how money could get in the way of fixing something like this.

"They do okay, I mean, we're comfortable and everything, but this…" he tapped his temple next to his optics, "…things like this are expensive. Real expensive. At least for mechs like us." Jazz paused and looked away for a moment, then turned back.

"I was kind of…unexpected," he said wryly. "They scraped together what they could for the protoform and clinic fees. My spark was settled in the protoform long before anyone noticed the virus." He leaned forward with his hand next to his mouth. "I'm not a very high-quality 'bot," he stage-whispered, grinning.

"Aaaaaaaanyway. Yeah. Long story short: virus in my system, no one noticed until too late, virus corrupts everything…eventually they managed to find a doctor who knew his aft from his cockpit and was able to shut it down. It wasn't a very high-quality clinic, either." He shrugged and grinned again.

"So yeah, that's about it. The virus really screwed things up in there. Pacer and Swing were out of money. They used what they had just for me to be born, and then the virus…well, they're still in debt from getting that stopped. I feel pretty lousy about that," he confided. "There wasn't any question of having the damage fixed, and by now it's been so long it's irreversible, even if we had the money." He gave a deep shrug and spread his hands. "Does that answer your question?"

Mirage couldn't seem to route commands to his vocal module properly. What an awful, personal story. And Jazz had told it freely. Of course, Mirage had _asked_. Because he was an insensitive _slaghead_. The weirdest thing was, he couldn't detect even a hint of bitterness. He knew Tower brats that bitched and moaned bitterly if their sire bought them the wrong brand of hunting rifle.

"You're not…mad about it?" Mirage asked incredulously.

"Mad?" Jazz sat up straight now, his optics flaring. "Mad? Of _course_ I'm mad about it. I'm slagging mad about it all the time – pardon my language." He gave a small shrug. "But what good does being mad do me? No damn good at all. I can spend every waking second being furious at the universe and hating life, or I can just say 'slag it' and roll with the punches." Another shrug. "I choose the second option."

"Oh." There was a klik of silence, and then Mirage couldn't help himself. "While I'm being nosy…"

"Yeeeeeeeees?" Jazz grinned at him.

"What you said…about you being unexpected…"

"Ah, _that_." Jazz gave him a knowing look.

"Were you really…you know…er…sparked naturally?" Mirage felt dirty even asking it.

Jazz laughed, clearly enjoying his discomfort in a way that was devoid of meanness. "You better believe it. I'm one hundred per cent all-natural," he said proudly.

"But…I didn't think…so that means…are your parents _really_ bonded?"

"Yup."

Mirage felt his brain break. Bonded pairs and natural sparklings were the stuff of sparkling tales and long-ago legends. This was almost beyond belief. But while Jazz struck him as many things, a liar was not one of them.

"That's…" Mirage began.

"Pretty crazy, huh?" Jazz finished for him.

"Yes."

"That's me, the walking freak show." Jazz laughed at himself. "If you ever get sick of me serving you, you can always just sell tickets."

"You're not a freak show." That was kind of a lie. Actually, it was a lot of a lie. Jazz was the strangest thing that had ever happened to Mirage. And he was certainly the most bizarre excuse for a personal attendant Mirage had ever seen.

But…he made things interesting. On one hand, Mirage thought that the past two solar cycles had given him his fill of 'interesting' for possibly the rest of his life. On the other hand…he was kind of curious to find out what happened next. And even after only two solar cycles of knowing him, the thought of his life without Jazz seemed, well, pretty dull.

Mirage stood up. "Come on."

Jazz looked confused. "I thought you said you didn't want to do anything."

"I don't. And we can do nothing for the rest of the day. I'll read to you or something. But right now, we have got to do something about your paint job," Mirage said frankly.

"My paint job?" Jazz was offended. "There's nothing wrong with my paint job! Swing did it himself." He crossed his arms defensively.

"Your paint job," Mirage told him bluntly, "is terrible. My apologies to Swing, but it's true. You can't go around looking like that. Especially not as my personal attendant. Come on, the sooner we go get you fixed up, the sooner we can come back here and do nothing."

Jazz surrendered. "All right, all right. You win. Bossy much?"

Mirage could hardly believe his audio sensors. "Cheeky much?" he shot back.

Jazz got to his feet with a wince. "Okay, I deserved that. I was out of line…" He shot Mirage a look as though he was about to burst out laughing. "…Master."

"You," he told Jazz, "are the worst excuse for a servant of all time."

"Probably," Jazz agreed, "but I try _real hard_."

"Out! Now! Move!"

"All right, I'm going, I'm going. After you, Master."

"Enough!"

"…okay." Jazz subsided and docilely allowed Mirage to lead him out the door. This was _definitely_ inexcusable behavior, on both their parts, but try as he might, Mirage couldn't seem to summon any real ire. He'd make this work, somehow. Why? _Because_, he admitted to himself, _you're having too much fun not to_.

* * *

I want to add a note of thanks to everyone for the comments and reviews and story alerts and favorites – I can't explain how much it means to me without sounding completely ridiculous and pathetic, so I'll just say thank you very, very much.


	6. Chapter 6

**Noblesse Oblige**

Chapter Six

* * *

"…of all the ridiculous slag I've ever heard of! _Honestly_!" Jazz punctuated his sentence by turning sharply on his heel and marching in the opposite direction.

Mirage glanced up from his seat on the floor with his school datapads spread out in front of him. _He's still at it_. The black-and-white 'bot had been pacing and raving for a while now, and showed no indication of winding down. Jazz was a hard mech to wind up, but he did seem to enjoy a good rant every once in awhile. Add to that Jazz's religious convictions, which Mirage usually knew better than to even touch on, and you got one very worked-up 'bot.

"Jazz, atechnogenesis is a widely-accepted belief, with a solid basis in-" Mirage tried to emulate the neutral, scholarly tone of Slides, their tutor. Jazz whirled to face him.

"Atechnogenesis, my aft! 'Naturally occurring gears and levers and pulleys'…what the slag?"

"Language, Jazz." Mirage murmured.

"All I'm trying to say…is if we arose from 'naturally occurring' levers and pulleys, then where the sla…" He checked himself. "Where did the levers and pulleys come from? It doesn't make any sense! Think about it, Mirage! We're so complex…and wonderful…how can you possibly think that we came into being completely by chance? There has to be something more, Mirage, there has to be a greater force-"

"Jazz?" Mirage interjected.

"What?"

"I want a snack. Go get me a snack."

Jazz's optics widened and for a nano-klik he looked as though he wanted to deck Mirage. Then he straightened, composed himself, and his face slid into a mask of professional neutrality. "Of course. I'll be right back." He glided out of the quarters and Mirage sighed in relief. He wasn't all that hungry, but he'd learned that one of the most effective ways to diffuse Jazz when he really got going was to put him in his place.

It had been almost two stellar cycles since he'd been given Jazz as a personal attendant. They were managing to evolve a dynamic that worked out for them, most of the time. Jazz had developed a nearly flawless professional persona – smooth, attentive, calm, competent. Vision issues notwithstanding, he was a natural.

In private, however, when it was just the two of them, things were different. In private, he usually let Jazz be… Jazz. He was friendly, quirky, genuine, smart, honest, frustratingly irreverent and frighteningly perceptive. Mirage knew that he shouldn't allow, much less encourage, the familiarity between himself and his servant. But there was something addictive about their interaction – it was completely different than any other relationship Mirage knew. In a way, it served as a pressure release for him.

Unique as the dynamic between him and Jazz was, it had changed nothing about Mirage's goals or destiny. He was still focused on growing into his role as the perfect young aristocrat. And he was doing a good job of it, he thought, at least in public. He tried to maintain his regal demeanor in private as well, but he'd be lying if he didn't admit that he often allowed himself to relax around his attendant.

A few days after the speeder crash, Mirage's tutors had returned and his lessons had resumed. Privately, Mirage had been grateful. It had become apparent that when he and Jazz were left to their own devices, it went one of two ways: either things would spiral wildly out of control, or they would end up doing nothing but, as Jazz put it, 'scratching their afts'. Mirage welcomed the structure back to his life.

It had been decided that Jazz could stay for Mirage's lessons – as long as it was understood that he was there so he could provide Mirage with homework help and a study buddy and practice partner outside of class. He was not to take time during lessons for himself – a nano-klik spent helping Jazz was a nano-klik wasted that could be spent on Mirage.

Surprisingly, the arrangement worked out. Jazz, despite having no formal schooling, not being able to read the datapads, and not being allowed to ask questions, learned quickly. He remained silent and alert throughout the lessons, but after Slides had left for the day, all the questions and ideas that had backed up in his processors came pouring out – sometimes resulting in outbursts like the one Mirage had just witnessed.

Oblique had been clear on not spending time to help Jazz during the lessons, but he hadn't said anything about afterward. Mirage suspected that Slides was helping Jazz out a little on his own time. But then, so was Mirage. He made sure to bring Jazz up to speed on information he'd learned before Jazz had joined them. He selected important documents, diagrams, and notes to be the ones that Jazz would jack directly into. The process always left the black-and-white mech drained and cradling his aching head in his hands, so they reserved it for only the most essential of materials.

Jazz asked good questions, and often came up with ideas that Mirage wouldn't have thought of in a million vorns. Frequently, Mirage would end up asking Slides Jazz's questions the next solar cycle. He felt a little guilty when Slides praised him for 'his' insight, but Jazz didn't mind, and he got his questions answered, so it all worked out for both of them.

"Your snacks, sir?" Mirage looked up. Jazz's expression was pleasant and professional. One hand supported a gleaming tray. "Where would you like to take them?"

"Oh, just sit down with them." Jazz complied with a smile, sliding the tray over to Mirage, who took a treat.

"How are they?" Jazz asked solicitously.

"Good. Take one and find out."

"Thanks, I will." Jazz nibbled delicately, savoring the morsel. He looked over at Mirage. "Don't worry, I'm all calmed down now."

"Well, that's good to hear."

"I still think atechnogenesis is stupid, though."

"Oh, naturally." Mirage's vents puffed a resigned sigh and Jazz laughed in response.

"Did you expect anything else?"

"Of course not."

* * *

Mirage didn't fully understand the need for personal combat lessons. It wasn't as though anyone from the Towers would ever actually need to fight. But personal combat training was traditional for every young aristocrat, so Mirage resigned himself to it. Jazz often teased him about it – Mirage loved tales of grand battles and heroic duels, but felt no need to recreate them for himself.

Oblique was especially particular in his choice of combat instructors for his son, having some very firm notions on the subject. He found most of the traditional martial styles wanting, dismissing Circuit-Su and Metallikato as 'mystic garbage', Diffusion as 'ridiculous', and gladiatorial-style fighting and Crystalocution as 'barbaric'. He found an instructor who wasn't beholden to any particular school, but used a style that borrowed from nearly all disciplines.

Much to his own chagrin, Mirage was turning out to be excellent at combat. Somehow it all seemed to come naturally to him. It was more than the repetition of movements – actually, he found the memorized sequences somewhat soothing. The preplanned routines – by himself they were like a mantra, with a partner they were like a dance. It was what happened during bouts of actual sparring that upset Mirage. For every action, Mirage had more than an equal and opposite reaction ready. How was it that for every move, Mirage knew without thinking how to counter it? He didn't know the person he was during the brief surges of feral satisfaction he experienced while he was fighting. It was all he could do to keep from enjoying it.

Jazz seemed to suffer from no such moral qualms. As with their academic lessons, he was being trained so he could serve as a practice and sparring partner for Mirage. At first glance, it would seem like a woefully lopsided matchup. And it was…but only a little. Jazz was shockingly good. He required a little more hands-on instruction in order to get the moves down initially, but once he did… Jazz was strength wrapped in nearly supernatural grace, capped off with a fierce intelligence. Mirage often wondered if Jazz would be better than him if not for the handicap of his limited vision. He suspected that he would be.

And another thing – the blind mech was nearly impossible to keep down. No matter how brutally Mirage put him down, Jazz would come bouncing back up like a ballobot. He never gave up – Mirage always had to be the one to call an end to their practice sessions. He wondered if Jazz experienced any of the bouts of viciousness that Mirage was plagued with. If he did, it never showed. 'Fighting Jazz' was like a distilled version of 'Regular Jazz' – all focused, determined cheerfulness. He always ended up with a smile…even when there was a little trickle of mech fluid trailing from the corner of it. Mirage would actually enjoy sparring with him if only he could stop, well, enjoying it so much. He disguised his darker impulses as distaste for combat. When merged with the aristocratically superior persona he was working to cultivate, it was entirely believable. He thought. Every once in a while, Jazz would look at him and appear to be about to say something, and then catch himself. Mirage didn't know what was causing Jazz to keep a stopper in it, but he did his best not to encourage inquiry.

* * *

And then there was the dancing.

Jazz hadn't been with him long before Mirage discovered his attendant's delight in all things musical. It stood to reason, of course, that a mech who couldn't see very well would have an affinity for sound. Mirage liked music, but Jazz _loved_ it. He wasn't particularly choosy about the type, either. The attendant devoured traditional ballads, epic symphonies, and modern clubbing rhythms (the ones Oblique didn't know Mirage had) with equal greed. He could never get enough. Mirage knew an advantage when he saw one, and shamelessly used it as leverage, distracting Jazz with musical temptations when it was convenient to have the mech out of the way. If Jazz realized he was being manipulated (which was probable, given how smart and perceptive he was), he never gave any indication, nor did he seem to care.

Given Jazz's musical passions, it surprised Mirage that his attendant never seemed compelled to sing. He certainly had a nice enough voice, Mirage admitted (though only to himself). Of course, it wasn't cultivated and aristocratic like his own, but there was something undeniably pleasing about that smooth voice with just a hint of a rasp. Somehow, those tones made everything Jazz said – right down to 'I'm running low on furniture polish' – sound like a melody.

And yet he never sang, nor did he show any signs of wanting to. He was always present and attentive at Mirage's music lessons. Singing was another one of those 'seemingly useless but apparently essential' skills required by someone of his caste. Mirage would never be a great singer, but he was more than adequate. Learning all the traditional songs was a chore that he would have found merely bearable if it wasn't for the secret satisfaction he derived from Jazz's enjoyment of his performances.

But whereas Jazz usually rushed to master whatever skills Mirage was being taught during their private time, he seemed blasé about the singing. He would listen appreciatively while Mirage practiced, but afterward, when the opportunity was obviously open for him to take his turn, he always seemed to want to press on to some other bit of schoolwork. Or he'd remember a bit of cleaning he had to do.

Then, one afternoon, Mirage found himself returning to his quarters early from a day that he was supposed to have spent alone with Oblique. An emergency at one of his father's businesses had terminated their time together early, so Mirage was cut loose. Jazz had been enthused at the prospect of a Mirage-free day, declaring that it would allow him to finally give the suite the proper deep-cleaning it was long overdue for. Mirage mused over the state he'd find his rooms in as he punched in the combination to open the door – and froze.

Jazz was standing at the opposite end of the sitting room, in front of the windowed double doors leading to the balcony, facing away from him. His feet were shoulder-length apart and his arms were outstretched, gesturing expressively. He was singing. And holy _Primus_, was he ever terrible. It wasn't just inexperience or lack of vocal training – the way he kept consistently falling flat on the notes – he was totally tone deaf. Mirage had never heard anything so awful. At first he thought maybe it was a joke of some sort, but no – Jazz genuinely seemed to be into it. Mirage laughed out loud, a very un-aristocratic explosive bray that he couldn't seem to control.

The sound stopped and Jazz whirled around, face registering first alarm, and then horror and embarrassment. Mirage was shaking now, attempting to control his laughter and failing completely. It was satisfying enough that he'd been able to sneak up on Jazz at all – a nearly impossible feat, even for someone who could turn himself invisible. But to witness such a display of unrestrained awfulness? Mirage was beyond hysterical.

"All right, that's enough." A hand caught his elbow and he allowed Jazz to guide him to a chair and force him gently to sit. "You've had your laughs. Time to calm down now. You're going to strain something in your vocal module." Mirage struggled to regain control of himself, concentrating on cycling air through his intake vents until the laughter subsided into giggles, and then silence. He looked up at Jazz, standing in front of him with his arms crossed, his silver face equally embarrassed, annoyed, and amused.

"So that's why you don't sing," Mirage said.

"That's why I don't sing," Jazz agreed.

"I'm surprised. I mean, I always just assumed…"

"Yeah. I get that a lot. Y'know, just because I _like_ something doesn't mean I'm _good_ at it."

"_Obviously,_" Mirage purred, smug.

After that, Jazz banished his master to a corner of the suite he'd already finished cleaning so that Mirage wouldn't get in his way. Mirage had complied with a smirk. Score one for the Tower brat.

But the dancing – oh, yes, the dancing.

The upper crust did love throwing grand parties and balls and dances, and the list of dances the proper young noblemech was required to learn was staggering. There was also a huge variety in styles of dance. There were the old-fashioned, staid, traditional dances that ended up looking to Mirage as though everyone in the room was walking around in an invisible maze. There were all the different styles that involved partners, from formal to sultry, requiring both the memorization of lots of complicated steps and a healthy dose of ingenuity.

Fortunately for Jazz, he had the capacity for both. And while he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, there was nothing wrong with his sense of rhythm. And not being able to see wasn't a problem – they practiced in a ballroom empty of everything but themselves and the dance instructor. Once Jazz had the dimensions of the hall down, he was good to go.

At first, Mirage had always been the leader in the partner dances, and Jazz always the follower. A lifetime of being guided around had prepared Jazz well for this, and he was easy to lead, responding intuitively to even the barest of touches. He was always compliant and eager to experiment, adapting easily to the trickier moves.

Then, one day as they stood together waiting for the instructor to find the right music so they could begin their practice, Jazz did something wholly unexpected. He put his hands on Mirage; not in the position for the follower, but in the position of the leader.

"What the Pit do you think you're doing?" hissed Mirage. This was unthinkable. He was the master, Jazz was the servant. He was the leader, Jazz was the follower. He was in control, Jazz was his to command.

Jazz was only a little shorter than Mirage, but this close, he still had to tilt his face up to look him in the optics. He grinned. "Don't you think you're letting your dancing education get a little too lopsided?"

"No, I do _not_." Mirage tried to wrench away, but Jazz held him firm without much effort.

"Don't be dumb. You may not want _me_ to lead you around the floor, but some day you're going to meet a handsome young mech with strong arms and more breeding and money than should be allowed by law. And you're going to be smitten with him and he's going to want to sweep you off your feet into those strong, _strong_ arms of his on the dance floor, but you're not going to know how to dance as a follower and won't you feel silly then?" Mirage fumed while he considered. Jazz was making fun of him, but he also had a point. Mirage couldn't reasonably expect to be the leader of every dance for the rest of his life.

"_Fine_." He sullenly placed his hands on Jazz's frame in the proper position for a follower. The music started suddenly, and they were moving before he was ready.

It was awkward at first. While he would have liked to blame Jazz for that, the fault really lay with Mirage. Whereas Jazz seemed to know exactly what to do, Mirage's processors were having trouble keeping up. Everything was backwards. He kept tripping over his own feet, and the instructor kept having to reset the music. Finally Mirage was able to keep the steps straight, but that didn't help with the power struggle.

Mirage was used to being able to control Jazz – if not in all areas of life, at least on the dance floor. He was finding it nearly impossible to surrender that control. Sometimes it was stubbornness that kept him from responding to Jazz's cues, and sometimes he just didn't pick up on them, not used to following another's lead. But Jazz was patient and firm. If something didn't work, he'd try it again. And slowly, Mirage began to come around. It was kind of like a game, trying to figure out what movements Jazz was trying to initiate. Once he stopped obsessing over the impropriety of the situation, it came surprisingly naturally.

Emboldened, Jazz began to move beyond the simpler steps of the dance. He initiated a spin, and Mirage complied. _Wow, that was actually kind of fun_. Jazz spun him again. Another cue, and Mirage swung out on the end of his partner's arm, only to be quickly wound tight and wrapped against his chest. Mirage was beginning to see the appeal in being a follower – these flourishes that a leader initiated and a follower performed were exhilarating.

There was a shift in Jazz's weight and a nudge of his leg, and before Mirage knew it, Jazz had him bent over backwards in a deep dip. He held Mirage there, leaning over him closely, an intense expression in his white optics. Mirage felt a surge of…something. He couldn't figure out what it was…fear? The sensation that came the closest was what he felt when he was airborne during the speeder crash – all of his insides seemed to be pulling in different directions. He ignored the feeling and began to wonder why they were still in this position. Why wasn't Jazz moving? It dawned on him that the music had ended.

Jazz pulled him back upright with a bright laugh, his face shifting from the strange look of intensity to a much more normal relaxed grin. He released his hold on Mirage, who for a few nano-kliks found that it was difficult to stand on his own. Mirage registered clapping and realized their instructor was applauding them, shouting words of praise. Jazz gave him a gentle nudge on the shoulder.

"See, now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Jazz teased.

"No, I guess it wasn't." He suspected Oblique wouldn't approve of Jazz leading him, even in practice, but what his sire didn't know couldn't hurt anyone. Besides, he'd enjoyed following, despite himself. There was something delicious about the surrendering of control, the exhilaration, even those strange lurching sensations. And if it felt this good, dancing in an empty room, being led by a mere servant, just for practice… What would it be like with a _real_ partner, someone of his rank and worth? Mirage almost shivered, imagining the real thing.

"Hey." Mirage blinked out of his haze. "You ready to go again?" Jazz asked him.

"Oh, _sure_."

* * *

Note: Atechnogenesis is the secular alternative to the more mythology-driven Cybertronian creation stories, with Primus and Unicron, etc. It's based on a _very_ perfunctory and not well-thought-out explanation for the Transformers' existence in the first Marvel comic way back when, before the Oracles Budiansky and Furman saw fit to deliver us from our ignorance. There's a brief explanation at Teletraan I:The Transformers Wiki, but honestly there's not really all that much to explain. It is much maligned, because it is The Dumb.


	7. Chapter 7

Note: Just as a heads-up, the rating on this thing will go up to M. Not quite yet, but we'll get there. So if slashy mech smexing (or my sad attempt at such) makes you upset, this may not be the fic for you. In the interest of fair warnings, and all.

From here on in, we'll be using the 'fast forward' button on our remotes, pausing to hit 'play' every once in awhile. They'd been together about two stellar cycles at the time of the last chapter. It's been about five now. We'll pause here for a little bit. On to it:

* * *

**Noblesse Oblige **

Chapter Seven

* * *

It had not been the best of nights.

The trouble had all started in the washroom. Among the responsibilities of a personal attendant was helping his master in the bath. The first few times Jazz has bathed Mirage, it had been awkward, for reasons Mirage couldn't quite define. But after a couple of false starts, things went more smoothly, and Mirage had to admit that Jazz was as good or better at cleaning him as any of the other attendants who had previously done so. The servant applied his usual precision and attention to detail to the task, and his hands were skilled. They found their way into the tightest cracks to coax the grime out, they always scrubbed firmly but never so hard as to be uncomfortable, and they were excellent at massaging the soreness out of a bit of taut cabling.

This night, however, things seemed…off. Jazz's attentions seemed perfunctory and almost sloppy. He'd linger over a spot needlessly, and then skip over other areas entirely. Truth be told, Jazz had seemed a little off all day; distracted. Mirage had made a point of not asking about it, convinced it would wear off as the day went by. Besides, it wouldn't do to indulge a servant's emotions. Whatever was nagging Jazz, he needed to leave it behind when he came to work. Which, it became apparent, was not happening. Mirage finally lost his patience.

"Hey!" He barked finally when Jazz had been scrubbing at the same spot hard enough to hurt, "What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry." Jazz seemed to come to himself a little.

"I'll bet you're sorry. You've been like this all day. What's got your cables knotted?" Mirage demanded.

Jazz sighed and started to rub solvent onto Mirage's shoulder. "It's nothing, really. It's just… It's just all the slag that's been going on across the planet."

"Language, Jazz," Mirage murmured.

Jazz's hand tensed on his shoulder. "It _is_ slag, Mirage. They automated another mining asteroid yesterday. That's almost two thousand mechs out of work. They don't have anywhere to go now, all because automation is a little bit cheaper. And there've been more riots…in Kalis, this time. It doesn't seem like the government is able to get them under control anymore. And the gladiatorial games…have you heard they've started killing off the losers? Those games are supposedly state-sanctioned! Or, they were. It's barbaric! And now everyone's saying that in Kaon, they're using the smelting pools on convicts…_living _mechs, like us! And they're building more of them!"

Mirage rolled his optics. Jazz was _so _tiresome when he got fixated on current events. Mirage couldn't honestly bring himself to care about what was going on in the world outside The Towers. He knew that soon he wouldn't have the luxury of living in complete ignorance anymore – unlike Jazz, his dealings would influence and be influenced by the world around him. But he was content to cling to his complacency for a little while longer.

"You shouldn't let yourself get worked up over those sorts of things," he told his servant.

"Why not? Don't they make you mad?" Jazz was rubbing determinedly at his shoulder now.

"Not really, no. Besides, have you considered that maybe you're not getting the full picture? Maybe you don't completely understand things…"

"What's not to understand?" Jazz's voice was acerbic as he switched sides, subjecting Mirage's other shoulder to the same abuse.

"Which mining asteroid got automated?" Mirage inquired. Jazz thought for a moment.

"Kau 1138-B-1."

"You know, my father owns a majority share in the operations on that asteroid." Mirage pointed out quietly. Jazz stopped scrubbing him entirely.

"Oh, I see." Mirage had never heard, could never have imagined that Jazz's voice could be this ice cold. He turned to face his servant. The white optics were sparking erratically, but the rest of the silver face was etched into hard, still, angry lines.

"What do you see?" Mirage put some caution into his voice. Not enough, apparently.

"It's all about the money for you, that's it!" Jazz's voice was dripping with sarcasm that was a far cry from his usual, friendly, self-deprecating kind. "Everything's fine, just slagging _fine_, as long as you've got your money. And, of _course_, as long as you keep getting more. People can get hurt, go empty, even die, and it doesn't even matter as long as _your_ world stays perfect and you go on getting more and more and more and more-"

Mirage cut him off, his voice sharp and superior, "I think you're forgetting something. That money you hate so much…it's what keeps you in energon, isn't it? That money is what keeps a roof over your head, paid for your protoform, keeps you and your parents in jobs."

"Dirty slagging money," Jazz spat out.

"Shut UP!" Mirage lost all control of his voice. "Shut UP before I shut you up. I don't think you remember your place. Do your slagging job and stop worrying about Cybertron. Leave the thinking to 'bots who actually MATTER." Mirage managed to stop. Somehow his systems had started to overheat. He could feel coolant pumping and the hiss of air vents as the cooling systems rushed to compensate. Jazz's systems evidently were in the same state, and for a few long moments, things were perfectly still, the only noise and movement being that of the air intakes. Mirage collected himself.

"I think it's time for you to go," he said coldly.

Jazz narrowed his optics. "I think you're right." He turned on his heel to leave, but Mirage caught his elbow and jerked him back. He leaned in behind the smaller mech so he could speak right into his audio sensor.

"When I see you tomorrow morning," he said slowly and carefully, "I expect you to leave the attitude at home. Do. You. Understand?" He released his hold on Jazz's elbow.

"Yes, _sir_," Jazz ground out without turning around. Mirage watched as he stalked out of the washroom without looking back.

"SLAG!" Mirage screamed when he was sure the servant was well out of earshot. "SLAG SLAG SLAG SLAG PIT DAMMIT SLAG…" He threw whatever he could reach against the walls. The cloths sailed harmlessly through the air, but the brushes made satisfyingly loud noises as they impacted, and some of the bottles broke, their contents seeping toward the drain.

Mirage had no idea it was even possible to be this angry. Nothing in his brain seemed to be working, some processors firing wildly while others simply shut down. He couldn't get his mind under control, so he instead concentrated on his body. He stopped thrashing and raging and focused on regulating his cooling system. Finally, he rinsed himself off, and started to gather up the scattered brushes and broken bottles. _I should leave this and make Jazz do it_, he thought. He paused. It was tempting, but he didn't want his servant to know how much their argument had affected him; that he'd lost control. He'd think of other menial tasks to give Jazz to remind him of his place. _Primus, I really don't want to deal with Jazz tomorrow_.

It seemed the deity had granted his request: Jazz failed to show up the next morning.

He had stopped showing up at insanely early hours of the morning long ago. It had been one of his first orders of business to learn how to walk from the servants' quarters to Mirage's rooms by himself. So he had learned the route, and no longer depended on Pacer and Swing's schedules to go back and forth.

The black-and-white 'bot had been quietly very proud of himself. His world had previously included only the servants' quarters and a small circumference around them. Now his universe had grown exponentially larger, and he was intent on expanding it even further. Partially with Mirage's help, and partially by himself, he explored the mansion and its grounds until he could get around smoothly on his own, more or less.

But while Mirage no longer found Jazz slumped in recharge in the sitting room at unbelievably early hours of the morning, his attendant was still prompt. He was almost always early for work, and _always_ on time. In the solar cycle and a half since they'd met, Jazz had never been even a nano-klik late, and never missed a day. So this was…unusual.

As time ticked by after Jazz was due to show up, Mirage ground his dental plates together, nurturing a satisfying anger that kept growing. _Ohhhhhhhhh, when I get my hands on him… _Mirage had already planned to exclude Jazz from lessons today, having come up with a list of jobs designed to remind him of his station. The tardiness fed Mirage's ire, serving as a case-in-point, a justification of all the nasty things he was thinking about the black-and-white mech.

When Slides showed up, he inquired after Jazz's whereabouts. When Mirage told him curtly that Jazz was late, he looked concerned.

"Should we wait for him?" Slides asked.

"No. Absolutely not." Mirage glowered. "He doesn't show up to work on time, he loses. Besides, you're here to tutor _me_, not him."

Slides nodded, but looked doubtful. "Maybe we should call and check-" Mirage cut him off with a glare. "All right," he sighed, "let's see your homework on the history of Vos and Tarn…"

The day creaked by agonizingly slowly. Mirage couldn't keep his mind on his schoolwork – he kept fixating on Jazz. At first, he just concentrated on his anger, making mental lists of all Jazz's faults and everything he'd ever done wrong. As the morning wore on, an uneasiness crept into his thoughts, sullying the purity of his fury and making it less satisfying. The uneasiness grew. _What if_… Mirage couldn't finish that sentence, but it dawned on him that he was now just as concerned as he was mad. Midday passed. Finally Mirage had to admit to himself that he was well and truly worried. He gave in to it.

"Let's take a break, Slides," Mirage said. His tutor nodded.

"All right." Mirage got up and moved into the other room, unwilling to reveal his reason for the pause to his tutor. He activated his comm.

"Jazz? Jazz, come in." He tried to make his voice sound stern, but it stopped working after a few words. "Jazz…Jazz, answer me. …please. If you're there, Jazz, please come in." There was only dead air in reply.

Mirage sighed. He _really_ didn't want to do this, didn't want to involve his sire, didn't want to get himself or Jazz in trouble. But he couldn't think of what else to do. He moved to the viewscreen and activated it, calling his father's office.

"Mirage? How can I help you?" Oblique's voice carried a distinct 'you'd better not be wasting my time' air.

"Can…can you ask Pacer where Jazz is?" Oblique gave him a questioning look.

"Where Jazz…all right, hold on a moment, son." Oblique leaned out of the frame and Mirage heard murmurs, which rose in alarm at the end. Oblique turned back to the screen with a frown.

"Mirage, Jazz didn't come home last night. Pacer and Swing assumed he was with you. Is this some sort of joke?"

"No! I swear! He's not with me, and I haven't seen him since last night and I don't know where he is and he's not answering his comm…"

"Stay calm, Mirage. Pacer's just gone out to trace the route between your quarters and his. I'll alert the staff and get everyone to search. Try to think of where he might be. We'll find him, son."

"Yes, sir." The screen went blank. Mirage ran out of his quarters, and then realized he had no idea where to go. He wandered down the levels, calling Jazz's name, until he got to the ground floor and went outside. The daylight was way too cheerful for all the worst-case scenarios that were crowding his head. _Where the Pit could he be?_ Mirage wondered helplessly, leaning against the wall.

The wall. That was it. Mirage stood up straight. When Jazz had a choice, he preferred to walk with a wall at his side rather than out in the open. He only rarely allowed himself to actually touch it for guidance, but having a wall there seemed to make him walk more comfortably and confidently.

Of course, the route between their quarters was completely out in the open. The most _direct_ route, anyway. There was another way to go. It was longer, but it followed the wall… Mirage moved forward, one hand on the wall, calling for Jazz. His steps quickened to a trot as he rounded the corner. "Jazz?"

And then he saw it. Straight ahead was a large round hole in the ground. It was a maintenance hatchway with the cover left off – Mirage could see it lying to the side. He broke into a run. "Jazz? _JAZZ_!"

"I'm right here! Mirage? Please! I'm here…." Mirage could hear the tinny replies, and then he was kneeling by the side of the hole looking down (Primus, it was a long way down!) and in the dark at the bottom he could see the familiar flash of icy-white optics.

"Jazz!" He was nearly screaming in relief.

"Mirage! Mirage? Is that you? Mirage?" That Jazz sounded equally as panicky didn't comfort him. He forced himself to calm down.

"It's me, Jazz. It's Mirage. It's all right. It's going to be all right. Are you hurt?" As his optics adjusted to the darkness, he could make out Jazz's form, which was lying in a bit of a strange position.

"Yeah, kinda, wouldn't you know it? I'll be okay, but my leg is messed up. And my arm, a little. My comm is out. Obviously. And I think I might be leaking from somewhere…"

"Hold on." Mirage flipped on his own comm and called his father. "Oblique! I found him! He fell into a maintenance shaft. He's in the alley between the east and west wings. He's hurt. He can't climb out…"

"Stay with him and stay calm, son." Oblique's voice crackled back, "We'll be right there."

"Everyone's on their way," he called down to Jazz, "we'll get you out." His air vents let out a massive sigh and he was surprised when what he said next sounded almost like a sob. "Primus, Jazz, I was so worried. I'm glad I found you."

White optics glowed up at him. "That makes two of us._ I'm_ glad you found me. I was worried too." Jazz managed a shaky version of his self-deprecating laugh.

Mirage heard footsteps and voices. "I think I hear them coming, Jazz." He looked up to see the pale blue figure of Swing rounding the corner first, wearing an expression he never would have expected to see on the famously easy going 'bot. Mirage had the sense to scramble away, which turned out to be a smart move as Swing tore through the place he had just been sitting and disappeared down the hole. Mirage could hear his footsteps clanging on the rungs of the ladder and his cries of relief as he and his son were reunited.

Pacer and Oblique arrived next, followed seemingly by the rest of the population of Cybertron in a crowd. Things remained chaotic for awhile. Warder and Sprocket arrived together and Warder transformed to his blocky utility vehicle mode. After much convincing, Swing was persuaded to climb out of the hole and Sprocket climbed down, pulling the end of Warder's tow line with him. After awhile, Sprocket called up.

"Okay, Warder. Start pulling, slowly." Warder activated his winch and the cable went taut. There was a squeal of pain and Warder stopped. Pacer and Swing gripped each other tightly.

"…I'm okay…" Jazz's voice was soft and unconvincing.

"Warder, keep going," Sprocket called. "This is the best we can do. It's not gonna feel good for him, but it's best to just get it over with as gently and quickly as possible." Warder resumed pulling, and Jazz remained silent, though they could hear bumping and scraping noises periodically from below. Mirage winced in sympathy; it had to be painful.

"Here he comes!" "Catch him!" "I've got you!" Mirage's view was blocked as bodies crowded around the shaft, grabbing and pulling and shoving.

"BACK OFF! Everyone, back OFF." That was Pacer, in a tone of voice Mirage had never heard from him. The crowd parted and Mirage was able to push his way to the front so he could see.

Jazz lay on the ground with his sires huddling over him protectively. Warder's tow line was still wrapped around him, and he was covered in some nasty-looking (and smelling, Mirage realized as the breeze shifted in his direction) fluids. In addition to the scratches and dents and scrapes he sported head to toe, Mirage saw that both Jazz's right leg and right arm were damaged. The glitching optics were narrowed, the face tight with pain.

Mirage could hear a siren faintly in the distance. Oblique stepped up to Pacer and dropped a hand to his attendant's shoulder. "Pacer." Pacer looked up. "I've called my personal doctor. They've sent a transport; it should be here any klik."

Pacer and Swing shared a horrified glance. Pacer stood up. "Thank you, sir, but we can't…"

"No." Oblique cut him off. "Don't worry about the expense. I'll take care of it. This is my property, it's my responsibility. No, I won't hear of anything otherwise," he added when Pacer looked as though he was about to protest. "I insist."

Pacer and Swing exchanged another worried look. Pacer turned back to Oblique, looking resigned but uncomfortable. "Thank you, sir. We- I- Just…thank you. We're grateful."

Oblique gave a solemn nod that Mirage knew was meant to be reassuring. "It's all right, Pacer. You and Swing just take care of your son." Then he looked up and stepped away from the huddled family. His face changed into something hard and his golden optics blazed bright. "Who was doing the work on this maintenance hatch?" he demanded, slowly and dangerously. No one spoke. "WHO?!" he thundered, "Who is responsible for this?" The crowd shuffled around and two terrified-looking maintenance 'bots crept forward. Oblique stared at them for a long moment; his optics narrowed. "You two…" he began.

"Sir…Oblique…please…" The voice was barely audible and barely recognizable as Jazz's. The black-and-white 'bot was struggling to sit up.

"Jazz! Lie still! Be quiet!" Swing hissed. Mirage couldn't tell if his tone reflected concern for his son or fear of Oblique.

"It's all right, Swing." Oblique turned to Jazz curiously. "What is it? You need to rest."

Jazz's voice was pained and pleading. "Please, sir. Don't punish them – don't fire them. It was an honest mistake. I'll be okay. Please, _please_ don't fire them. It was my fault. I shouldn't have gone this way. Please don't fire them." The sight of Jazz, helpless and _begging_, nauseated Mirage. He had to force himself not to look away.

Oblique was silent for a moment, looking stormy. "All right," he said at length. "All right. There _will_ be repercussions." He shot a meaningful look at the unfortunate pair. "But I won't fire them."

"Thank you, sir," Jazz sighed. He relaxed a little; Mirage could hear a rattling noise in his air vents.

The siren noise that had been building became audio-splitting, and one of the servants came tearing around the corner, followed by an ambulance and another white car bearing medical insignias. The two medical mechs transformed and began yelling for everyone to stand back. The car-mech gently pulled Pacer and Swing off of Jazz while the ambulance-mech knelt at the injured bot's side. He pulled out a scanner and began asking Jazz questions in a warm, low voice.

The crowd began to disperse. The ambulance-bot flipped his scanner shut, pulled out a syringe, and injected something into Jazz's fuel line. He then transformed back to an ambulance. His partner secured Jazz to a stretcher and loaded him in the back. Mirage wanted to talk to Jazz, to say something, but there didn't seem to be a chance. Next thing he knew, the ambulance and car were driving off, with Pacer and Swing following close behind.

"Mirage." Mirage felt his sire's arm around his shoulder and looked up. "He'll be fine, son. He'll get nothing but the best care. I promise you that." Mirage nodded. "Why don't you take the rest of the day off from your studies? You probably wouldn't get anything done anyway. Go on back to the house, I'll see you at evening meal."

Mirage nodded and trudged back to the house, mind full of gratitude and guilt and Jazz.

* * *

Again, a special thanks to everyone who's been commenting. I'm catching up on responding to them, I promise. And everyone who's added favorites and alerts: I see you too. Thank you.


	8. Chapter 8

**Noblesse Oblige**

Chapter Eight

* * *

When Mirage returned to his quarters, he found Slides still there, confused at being abandoned by his charge. He'd missed the whole affair, and Mirage sent him home without an explanation. He was too overwhelmed to explain things, and the gossip mill would provide Slides with plenty of information about the day's goings-on.

All right, he had gotten rid of his tutor; now what? There was no way he could concentrate on schoolwork. He could read, but…pretty much everything he was reading, he was reading with Jazz. He glanced at the board with the strategy game set up on it that he and Jazz had in progress. As usual, Mirage's side was losing. Jazz nearly always beat him, and he was always a gracious winner. Mirage was becoming an increasingly un-gracious loser, but frustration compelled him to keep playing. He'd out-think Jazz someday.

There were his console games! Of course. He hadn't played with them in a long time since he couldn't play with them with Jazz. Mirage started one up and settled down in front of the screen with the controller. He played for awhile, then paused the game. This was a lot more boring than he remembered. The second game he tried was no better, and Mirage abandoned the effort.

When had Mirage, the model of the self-contained loner, become so lousy at amusing himself? The answer was obvious: since Jazz. He wondered if this was what it was like for Oblique. Did he feel lost when Pacer went home to Swing and Jazz at night? Mirage found that impossible to contemplate. Of course, Oblique and Pacer were together at all times, but Mirage doubted that their relationship contained any hints of the rampant unprofessionalism of his with Jazz. He knew Oblique would be appalled if he saw the way the pair behaved when no one else was around.

What _was_ his relationship with Jazz, anyway? Not that of a normal master and attendant, he was sure. Something had corrupted that from the beginning, turning what was a time-honored tradition into something else. Was what he had better, or worse? Sometimes he found himself jealous of the other Tower brats' attendants, with refined manners and (he was ashamed to admit) functional optics. He was pretty sure none of them ever got mouthy with their masters, or beat them at strategy games, or snuck up behind them to startle them. But he was also pretty sure that none of those servants smiled like they'd won a prize every time their master walked into the room.

So, what about him and Jazz? The events of the day had forced him to admit (if only to himself) that he cared about glitchy little 'bot. Before today, he had tried to convince himself that Jazz was…disposable, somehow. That his association with Jazz was capricious and strictly temporary. That any klik now he'd ditch him and get a real attendant. Ha. After a day of imagining Jazz taken away forever by forces beyond his control, Mirage knew that he could never voluntarily give him up.

There was still the…disturbing nature of their relationship. An outsider might mistake them for friends. A ludicrous mistake. Mirage knew what friends were. He had friends. They were well-bred and monied. They got together when their sires told them to, to hunt turbofoxes, or dance, or play polite party games, or talk slag about 'bots who weren't present. And of course, they played the never-ending game of one-upping each other with lavish displays of wealth. It was a game where winning was only temporary, but losing was unthinkable.

So no, he and Jazz were not friends. Jazz was his servant, his attendant. And perhaps…his companion? It still sounded too familiar to say out loud. Perish the thought. But he did enjoy the black-and-white mech's company, so… 'companion' fit. But it was a label Mirage would keep to himself.

* * *

When time for the evening meal finally rolled around, Mirage got to the dining room early and waited for Oblique, squirming in his seat like a sparkling. When his sire arrived, Mirage wanted to leap up and demand to know what was going on. But there were formalities to be observed, and it didn't seem as though Oblique was making tonight an exception to the rule. Mirage went through the rituals of greeting, and then endured the servant's droning as the first course was served, elaborating on the vintage of the energon and the details of the particular refinement process. Finally, the stupid mech left them alone. Mirage screamed internally in frustration as Oblique took a long, considering sip of his energon, and a careful bite of the accompanying tidbit. He forced himself to mirror his father.

"…really is a fine vintage. I won it off Nightlight in a bet on a turbofox hunt a few stellar cycles back. Delightful little notes of lead sulfide lingering after, don't you find?" Oblique was speaking to him.

"Um. Yes. Sir." Mirage managed.

Oblique relented. He put down his cube and gave his son a small smile. "It appears that young Jazz will be fine."

Mirage did not bother with being nonchalant. "He is? Really? What was wrong?"

"I'm not entirely sure of the particulars, but I know they repaired damage to his arm and reset that leg, though it will take awhile to heal fully. There was some internal leakage, but they managed to find the source and stop it, and replace the fluid loss. And hopefully, they cleaned him up a bit. What an awful stink." Oblique made a face and chuckled softly at his own joke.

"So…where is he?" Mirage asked.

"At his home." Oblique rolled his optics. "The doctors wanted to keep him at least overnight, but his parents insisted on taking him home with them. Huh. They probably fear I'll withdraw my financial support. They're wrong, of course. I've said I'll take care of the charges accrued by this particular incident, and I will. Pacer should know me better." He sighed. "Ah, well. I can pay for housecalls and trips to the office as well as hospital stays, I suppose."

"Oh."

"He won't be reporting to work tomorrow, I'm afraid. I've been told he sends his apologies."

"Oh."

"Don't worry, I've given Swing the day off so he can see to his son's needs. I can do without him _much_ more easily than I can without Pacer." The way Oblique furrowed his optic ridge when he said the last sentence suggested that it was a recurring refrain, at least in his sire's thoughts.

"Oh." Mirage was saved from having to attempt more scintillating conversation by the arrival of the second course. After the exposition and the initial sipping and nibbling, Oblique folded his hands and gave his son a serious look.

"Mirage. There is something I wish to discuss with you."

"Yes, sir?" The guilty conscience of youth unrolled a list of Mirage's imagined misdemeanors and felonies, both major and minor. What had he done wrong? That Oblique had found out about?

"I've been thinking about it for awhile, and the events of today make it seem as though the time is right."

"For what?" Mirage was lost.

"Well, for you to get a proper personal attendant," Oblique said, as though it was obvious.

"A what?"

"A proper attendant. One that befits your standing. This thing with Pacer's son – it was an experiment, really. A test for you. I wanted to see how you would handle the responsibility, the challenge. If you could train him to be useful while still maintaining your proper decorum. And you have – for the most part – done well."

_If only he knew_, Mirage thought, sinking into dread.

Oblique continued, oblivious to his son's distress. "But there's no longer a need to test you, not where that's concerned, at least. So I think it's time you had a real attendant, not an embarrassment. One who can help you, not one you have to help. I can begin to interview candidates tomorrow. What do you say?" He smiled kindly.

"No."

"No?" Oblique cocked his head, more confused than angry. His son had never said 'no' to him before.

"No."

Oblique raised an optic ridge at his son. "May I ask why?"

Mirage struggled. What could he say that would sound right to Oblique? "Jazz is faithful," he said carefully, "he works hard to serve me. He is…unique, but his usefulness outshines that flaw. As Pacer faithfully serves you, Jazz faithfully serves me. I am proud to carry forward that tradition. Besides, you have often spoken of our responsibility to those below us."

Oblique gave him a strange look. "Mirage, _noblesse oblige_ is one thing, this is another. This is not a burden that is your responsibility to bear. You don't need to harness yourself to a boulder. And as for tradition – tradition is important, yes, but don't do yourself a disservice for the sake of tradition."

Internally, Mirage screamed in fear. "Jazz is not a burden," he said calmly and firmly. "He serves me well. I wish to keep him."

"You're serious," Oblique said, in a tone of mild disbelief.

"I am."

"Very well." Oblique turned his palms up in a 'well, I tried' gesture. "If the boy pleases you, then keep him. But when the burden grows old, let me know."

"It won't."

"We'll see."

* * *

When Mirage woke up the next morning after a night of restless recharge, he hoped for a nano-klik that his memories of the previous solar cycle were actually one of the many strange dreams that had filled his head. Even though he knew Jazz wouldn't be showing up, he couldn't help himself – he kept glancing at the door. When it eventually opened, it was Slides who entered.

"I stopped by to see Jazz before I came over," his tutor told him. "He was offline, but Swing assures me that he's resting comfortably."

"Oh, really? That's good." Mirage would have liked more information, but he'd take what he could get.

They began their lessons, and it soon became apparent that Mirage's concentration hadn't improved from the day before. In addition, he was keeping a spare datapad open, compiling notes on it for Jazz when he returned. Slides seemed sympathetic and didn't chastise Mirage for his lack of focus. When he packed up to leave at the end of the day, he leaned over and tapped the datapad of notes.

"Would you like me to take this to him?" Slides asked. "I'm sure Swing or Pacer can read it to him, so he won't fall behind."

"Yes, thank you." Slides took the datapad, smiled at him, and left.

Mirage had personal combat lessons next, and he used them to vent his frustration. It turned out that rage without focus wasn't a particularly effective combat tactic (at least, not against his instructor), and Mirage spent a lot of time on the floor.

He had looked forward to the evening meal all day, expecting to receive a full progress report on Jazz. Instead, Oblique talked about a buyout of another company that he was in the process of, a charity event he would be attending in a few solar cycles, the progress on the restoration of the south tower. Mirage listened and responded politely, but with growing impatience. Finally there was a lull, and Mirage seized the opportunity.

"How is Jazz doing?"

Oblique gave him a slightly confused look. "I'm sure I don't know."

Mirage was confused too. "You don't? But Pacer…"

"Was with me all day. The subject never came up."

"Oh." _The subject never came up? How could it not have come up? What did Oblique and Pacer talk __about? Did they talk at all? _

"I'm certain Pacer will let me know in the morning whether or not Jazz will be able to report for work. I'll let you know then."

"Oh. All right. Good. Thanks." That wasn't really what Mirage was looking for, but it was better than nothing.

* * *

The next morning, Oblique called Mirage on the viewscreen briefly to inform him that Jazz would be unable to make it to work again. He terminated the connection without offering any elaboration. Mirage sensed that it was the beginning of another long and miserable day. His concentration during the day's lessons continued to be atrocious, and Slides' tolerance for his lack of focus appeared to be wearing thin. They both seemed relieved when Slides left at the end of the day, taking the pad of notes for Jazz along with him.

Mirage contemplated the long stretch of afternoon in font of him. No combat or dance or any other kinds of lessons today. Nothing to take up his time or occupy his mind. Mirage ran through the list of possible activities, none of them appealing in the slightest. All he really wanted to do was… Why the slag shouldn't he do whatever he wanted to do? Well, actually, there were plenty of reasons, but Mirage shut down that line of thought before it could interfere with his impulsive decision. He found himself cutting across the lawn, heading toward the servants' quarters.

It wasn't a fancy building, basically just a large box with a sloping roof. Utilitarian. Despite it being on his property, Mirage had never been there, never even been close. His steps slowed as he approached; he increasingly felt trepidation. Apparently he wasn't the only one – the few figures that had been out front disappeared around corners or behind doors when they saw him. He came to a stop – now what? He had no idea whose quarters were whose.

"Mirage? What are you doing here?" Mirage spun around at the sound of the voice.

"Sprocket! Hi!" Mirage couldn't think of anyone better to run into than the lanky yellow-orange servant. But when it came to explaining himself, Mirage faltered. "I'm, um…"

"Here to visit Jazz?" Sprocket prompted, smiling.

"Um, yes." Mirage hesitated.

"You don't know where he lives, do you?" Mirage shook his head. Sprocket gave him a grin and jerked his head toward the building. "C'mon. I'll show you his apartment."

"Thanks." Mirage gratefully let himself be led into the 'quarters. _Primus, it's ugly in here. Why are the lights so dim? And what's that funny smell?_

"It's downstairs. This way." He followed Sprocket down the narrow staircase. _Downstairs? Like, in the basement? No windows?_ Mirage's sense of being out of place increased. Sprocket stopped in front of a nondescript door. "This is it. Tell the kid I said hi, willya?"

"I will. Thanks. –wait!" Mirage was bewildered. He stared at the door. There was the access pad, but – "Sprocket, where's the door chime? How do you-"

Sprocket gave Mirage a look of pity and leaned over to the door with a fist raised. He rapped his knuckles three times against the door, gave Mirage a salute and a smirk, and left.

The door slid open to reveal Swing, who looked very tired and, as he took in the sight of Mirage, very incredulous.

"Oh! Mir- Sir. What can I do for you?" Swing was trying his best to look polite, but Mirage got the clear impression that he resented the intrusion. He held up his hands in what he hoped was a pacifying gesture.

"It's just Mirage, Swing. For right now, at least."

Swing's sky blue face softened a little. "Well then, 'Just Mirage', what can I do for you?" So this was where Jazz got his irreverent attitude from. It certainly wasn't from Pacer. It was somehow comforting to see Jazzlike behavior reflected in one of his sires.

"I was…I was wondering if maybe I could…see Jazz?" Mirage sounded just as unsure of himself as he felt.

Swing glanced anxiously over his shoulder into the apartment. "I don't know. He's been in recharge a lot." He paused, then seemed to come to a decision. "I'll check to see if he's awake. I know he'd like to see you if he is. He talks a lot about you. Come on in." Mirage stepped into the apartment. "Wait here." Swing turned down a short hallway and into a room.

Mirage's sense of claustrophobia persisted. _At least it doesn't smell funny in here_. He glanced around. The furniture was shabby and plain, but everything was clean. There was a small, ancient holoviewer in the corner, but none of the chairs were pointed toward it. The various tables and shelves and flat surfaces held some tchotchkes and datapads, but mostly pictures. Jazz. Pacer and Swing. Jazz, Pacer, and Swing. Mirage felt like a voyeur. Everything here was so personal, so different. He shouldn't have come. It didn't even look as though there were more than three rooms. The area of the whole apartment was smaller than half his own quarters.

"Mirage?" Swing was smiling at him. Just like his son. "He's awake. You can see him. Just- be careful. Don't tire him out, okay?"

"I'll be careful." Mirage paused in Jazz's doorway. The room was impossibly tiny and bare. It was just barely wide enough for one 'bot to stand and move between the recharge berth and the wall. There was a chair wedged into the space, and a small shelf next to the head of the berth which held nothing but a battered data storage device. The recharge berth was narrow and didn't look like it had any cushioning on it at all. What it did have on it was Jazz.

"Mirage? Hey…" Jazz's voice was weak, but warm. His shoulders and head were propped up slightly, his optics flickering in the dim light. Mirage's insides gave a lurch at how fragile he looked. But he was smiling. "What brings you down here to the Dead End with us empties? Is this some kinda bratty rich kid rebellious phase?"

Mirage felt a surge of indignation followed by a rush of relief. "Yeah, you know me. I'm all about slumming it." He sat in the chair and scooted it closer to the berth.

"How's it going?" Jazz asked.

"What? I'm supposed to be asking_ you_ that, dummy. How's it going with you?"

Jazz coughed out a laugh. "Boring."

"No, I mean, how are you?"

"Eh, I'll be okay. I've felt better, don't get me wrong, but I'll be okay." Jazz made a small, dismissive wave.

"What's with this?" Mirage tapped the metal brace built around Jazz's leg.

"Oh, that. It's just to help things heal straight, and help support my weight so I can walk on it sooner."

"And when will that be?"

"Soon, I hope. Why? It's not like you miss me or anything," Jazz teased gently.

"Of course not. It's just…there's a scratch in the big chair in the sitting room and it's not going to buff itself out," Mirage said loftily.

"Oh, is that all?" Jazz pretended to sound offended.

"No, that's not all. I need a good polish. And I need someone's aft to kick during combat practice." Mirage colored his tone with just the right amount of 'bratty sulk'.

"Ha!" Jazz writhed with laughter, wincing.

"This doesn't seem very restful." Swing's voice was annoyed, but he was smiling fondly. "I brought snacks. Mirage, can you take this? Just set it over there." Mirage took the bowl and set it on the shelf. Swing handed him two small cubes of energon and Mirage passed one to Jazz.

"Thank you, Swing." Mirage said graciously.

"Yeah, thanks." Jazz raised his cube in salute.

"No problem. Enjoy. And REST." Swing shot them a parting glare and retreated. Mirage peered dubiously at the contents of the bowl. They didn't look anything like the elegant canapés he was used to.

"Don't be a prissy proto." Jazz snagged one of the shapeless lumps. "Try one. They're good. Swing makes them."

Out of politeness, Mirage took a snack and bit into it. Shockingly, Jazz was right. It was wonderful. He finished it and took another. "You're right; these are good."

"I told you so." Jazz smirked. Mirage finished his second snack and took a sip of energon. He spluttered a bit and nearly spit it out – it tasted unbelievably foul. "Oh, yeah," Jazz said apologetically, "Sorry. That's probably not what you're used to."

"Is this really what you refuel with all the time?" Mirage asked, examining the cube. Now that he noticed it, the color did seem a bit off.

"It gets the job done." Jazz shrugged. Then he opened his mouth to say something, and shut it again, looking hesitant. "Mirage…are we okay?" he finally asked, softly.

Dimly, Mirage recalled that he was supposed to be mad at Jazz. Fifteen billion vorns ago, maybe. He tried to summon the feeling of anger and failed. "Yeah…we're okay."

Relief washed over the silver face. "Oh, good. I was worried. I shouldn't have shot my mouth off like that-"

"Shut up, Jazz." Mirage told him gently. He didn't want to think about their argument or the things that were said. All he could think of were the feelings of thinking he had lost Jazz, then finding him, then thinking he had lost him again… A part of Mirage wanted to tell Jazz about Oblique offering to replace him, to confide in him how desperate and awful he felt at the thought of Jazz being taken from him. But that would definitely be crossing some sort of line. And Mirage realized that in his attendant's weakened state, the knowledge that he'd almost lost his job might not be beneficial for his healing. This would remain Mirage's little secret.

"I'm just really, really glad you're going to be all right." He slipped his blue fingers around Jazz's black ones and squeezed once, then let go. The air was thick for a moment. Mirage picked up the old data storage device. "What's on this?"

Jazz glanced over. "That? Oh, my music."

"Naturally. I should have guessed."

"Yeah, you should have."

The two mechs talked and joked until Jazz's optics started flicking on and off dully and the pauses between his responses grew longer. Eventually, the white light dimmed and stayed that way, and Jazz's vents sighed a little as he relaxed into recharge. Mirage should have left, but he stayed, watching Jazz sleep until Swing tapped him on the shoulder. Mirage silently followed him out of the room.

"Thanks for coming." Swing said once the door had slid shut. He was smiling – apparently he had gotten over his unease at Mirage's presence. "It's been boring for him. And he misses you."

"I…" It should have been easy to just say, _I miss him too_. Impossible, though. "His assistance is invaluable. I…await his return."

Swing gave him a knowing smile, than frowned. "Mirage, isn't it a little late?" Mirage checked his internal chronometer and gasped. How had time slipped away like that? He was late for the evening meal for the first time in his life. He stammered a mix of apologies and thanks and excused himself, running back to the main house as fast as possible.

* * *

Thanks to everyone for your support and comments!


	9. Chapter 9

**Noblesse Oblige**

Chapter Nine

* * *

A few days later, Mirage woke up early. He tried to slip back in to recharge and failed, so he got up and wandered into the sitting room to wait for Oblique's morning call telling him that once again, Jazz wouldn't be making it to work today. But inside the sitting room…Mirage blinked his optics on and off to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

Jazz was bent over a side table, a caddy of cleaning supplies at his side, carefully rubbing polish into its surface. At Mirage's entrance he rose to his feet with some difficulty and beamed.

"Jazz!" Mirage sounded much more excited and happy than was prudent, but much less so than he felt. It would do for a compromise.

"At your service…again. Finally." Jazz did a stiff version of one of his overly-elaborate bows. "You'll have to show me where the big scratch in the chair is that you were telling me about."

"Do you know what time it is, Jazz?" It was early, very early. Much too early for Jazz to be at work.

Jazz shrugged. "I have a lot of time to make up for."

Mirage narrowed his optics suspiciously, but let it go. He moved to stand beside Jazz and caught one of his hands, guiding it to the offending scratch.

"Wow, that _is_ a big one. How'd it happen?" Jazz set to work at it immediately, groping for his supplies. Mirage nudged the caddy closer to him with his foot. "Thanks."

"I'm not sure. I didn't notice it until the other day." What Mirage did notice were Jazz's stiff, painful movements. They were a far cry from his attendant's usual confident grace. "Jazz…are you sure you're all right for this? Do you need a few more days at home? Or do you just want to sit? I don't want you overtaxing yourself…"

"No." Jazz was friendly but firm. "I'm here to work. I've spent enough days as a waste of space. It's time for me to stop being a burden." Something inside Mirage gave a twinge at hearing Jazz refer to himself the way Oblique had referred to him just a few days ago. Of course, the attendant didn't know about that. Jazz's voice got lighter. "Besides, one more day of doing nothing but lying on my berth would have bored me to death, and a dead attendant wouldn't do you any good at all."

"I suppose not." Mirage leaned forward and gently tapped the brace that was still around the black-and-white mech's leg. "When does this come off?"

"Soon, hopefully." Jazz shrugged and kept his face turned toward his work. "Apparently I'm a bit of a slow healer. Something to do with my glitchy, low-grade protoform, probably. Just goes to show, you get what you pay for, right?" Jazz shot a grin over his shoulder. Mirage didn't know what to say. He was used to Jazz's occasional cheerfully self-deprecating comments, but this time he detected a slight but unmistakable hint of the bitterness Jazz had never allowed himself to indulge in. He decided to deal with it by indelicately changing the subject.

"If you want, I'll go over the stuff Slides taught me while you were out, so you'll be caught up when he gets here," he offered.

"That'd be great, I'd really appreciate it." The edge was gone from Jazz's voice as though it had never been there. "Thanks for sending the notes over, by the way. Swing read them to me, but…I'm not sure how much of it stuck. I was kinda out of it for awhile there."

"That's understandable." Mirage fetched his pile of datapads and notes from the past few days and spent the next few hours catching his companion up on their schoolwork while Jazz cleaned.

When Slides arrived, they commenced lessons as usual. Mirage was sure Oblique wouldn't approve of the amount of backtracking his tutor did to compensate for Jazz's absence, but he didn't have any argument with it. It made for an easy day of review for Mirage, anyway. When the topic of current events came up, both young mechs were carefully silent. Slides tried to provoke one of their usual discussions, but neither 'bot rose to the bait and eventually the tutor gave up and moved on.

When class was over for the day, Jazz accompanied Mirage to (but did not participate in) combat lessons. They ran a few more errands around the mansion, and Mirage noted that something other than the obvious physical difficulties was different in the other 'bot's movements. He was used to Jazz's proudly guarded independence – the other mech had made it his business to learn his surroundings, and he didn't rely on Mirage for guidance, moving around with sureness and grace. Usually. Today he stuck close to Mirage as if magnetized, and his steps were halting, almost timid. Mirage felt uneasy about the change, but didn't comment on it.

"What now?" Jazz asked when they had returned to Mirage's quarters.

"Now…we sit. We're done for the day." There really wasn't anything else pressing, and Jazz looked tired.

"I…okay. You're the boss." Mirage suspected Jazz would have put up more of a fight if he wasn't so worn out. They each chose their usual chairs and slumped into them, and for a while there was a comfortable silence.

After awhile, Jazz broke it. "Hey, thanks for coming to visit me. It was very…it was nice."

Mirage had visited one other day, after the evening meal so losing track of time wouldn't be a problem. There had been a slight bit of awkwardness about the visit – Pacer had been present. While Swing seemed to have decided that Mirage was trustworthy, apparently Pacer didn't get the memo. Oh, he was polite. Very polite. He didn't do or say anything to indicate that the young aristocrat was unwelcome, but Mirage got the hint all the same. Above Pacer's courteous smile were optics that watched Mirage as though he could see right through him.

"Oh, no problem." Mirage waved it off.

"I never expected to see you in the 'quarters. It was a surprise, that's for sure."

"Maybe I'm not as predictable as you think." Mirage said and Jazz gave a sarcastic puff of a laugh. "Sprocket showed me where you live," he admitted. "And…he helped me out. Did you know you guys don't have door chimes? I wasn't sure how to let you know I was there."

"You mean…" Jazz's smile was incredulous and delighted. "…knocking? Sprocket showed you how to knock? You didn't know how to _knock_?" Mirage might have been annoyed that Jazz was laughing at him if he hadn't been trying to provoke it.

"When would I have ever needed to 'knock'? _Civilized_ 'bots have door chimes." Mirage willed himself to sound aristocratic and indignant.

"Of course. But what would us servants know about civilization? We're all just a bunch of levers and pulleys over there." Jazz must be feeling better if he was up to making atechnogenesis jokes.

They were quiet again for a moment. "I don't think Pacer likes me much." Mirage said.

"Nah, he…" Jazz paused. "…he's just protective. I'm his son. He worries about me. And lately, it looks like I managed to prove his worries right. Part of them, at least. And if he's right about some things, what's to say he's not right about others? Having me for a son…it can't be easy." Guilt was plain on Jazz's face. He turned away and his mouth straightened into a thin, hard line. "Y'know…if your father hadn't paid for my repairs, I'd be scrap by now."

"That…that's nothing. Nothing you should worry about. It's not a big deal."

"Maybe not for you." Jazz glanced at him, then stared down at his hands. "Lots of things that aren't a big deal for you are a VERY big deal for mechs like us."

"But-" Mirage began. Jazz held up a hand to silence him.

"Look, Pacer and Swing…we may not have very much, but they work hard for it. What we have is _earned_, fair and square. But now…we owe Oblique, big time. It's not a good position to be in."

"That's not how it is," Mirage protested.

"It is." Jazz was serious. "For us, this is how it is. It slagging sucks rancid exhaust, but…" He trailed off, then seemed to remember where he was, and the anguish left his face as he schooled his features back into casual pleasantness. He returned his friendly gaze to Mirage, and made a point of leaning back in his chair, the picture of relaxation. "But enough of that. You don't need to hear me bitch. I'm sorry."

"No, there's nothing to be sorry about. You- It's fine." Mirage was fascinated and appalled. Never had he seen such clear evidence that Jazz was putting on a show for him. What was and wasn't real? He was torn between pride that Jazz was able to maintain a professional countenance, and an irrational desire to be someone Jazz could confide in.

Jazz looked away again during the silence that followed, and Mirage found himself studying the familiar form of his attendant. It was easy to say that Jazz looked like Pacer, and he did, but really only superficially. Their color schemes were similar, it was true, but now that Mirage had seen him with Swing, it was easy to see the resemblance to Jazz's other sire. His mouth, Mirage decided. His mouth was the same as Swing's, and he held it in the same way. A thought occurred to him.

"Jazz, what do I look like to you?" His mouth asked the question before his brain thought about it. _Whoops_.

Jazz wasn't offended at all, though. He seemed relieved at the change in subject. A look of consideration, and then: "Blue," he said simply.

"That's it? I'm 'blue'?"

Jazz allowed himself to squint, which Mirage had long ago realized he usually refused to do as a point of pride. "Well, blue and white. And I can see the silver when I'm close enough. And your optics…I can kind of see the gold glow, most of the time. So yeah. You're a blue and white and silver blob with gold optics. That's about it."

"Huh. That's flattering. It must be weird, not knowing what anyone looks like."

"Well, that's not totally true. I know what Pacer and Swing look like. And I know what I look like." Jazz corrected.

"How?"

"Pictures," Jazz explained. "I jacked into pictures of each of us once, and they're saved in my memory. So I know what my family and I look like." He tilted his head and looked at Mirage thoughtfully. "Not that I'm not curious about other people…" He let it dangle and Mirage picked it up.

"Jazz?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you like to…see a picture of me?" Mirage felt egotistical and oddly shy, asking it.

Jazz beamed like he'd just been made Prime. "I'd _love_ that."

"Well, come on, then." Mirage waited for Jazz, then led him to his computer. He flipped through the picture files.

"Choose a clear one." Jazz coached him from over his shoulder. "One with your whole body in it. And another one of your face. I want to see one of your face. And one with your alt form."

I am! Primus! Keep your helmet on!" Mirage didn't let the relief he felt at the happy eagerness in Jazz's voice show in his own, but he allowed himself to grin into the monitor, since Jazz couldn't see it. He selected three images and isolated them in a folder together. "Okay. I've got them." He grabbed Jazz's hand and placed it on the keyboard. "Press this key to flip between them." He helped Jazz's other hand guide his data cable to the port. "Are you ready?"

"Oh, yeah." Jazz grinned and plugged in his jack. Mirage studied his face as he stared intently off into middle space. The only sound was the clicking as his companion flicked between pictures.

Finally Jazz pulled his jack out of the port. "Ugh," he said, and reeled a little bit, one hand on his head. Mirage sprang up and placed a supporting hand on his back.

"'Ugh'? That's not exactly the reaction I was looking for," he teased, pretending to be hurt. "Am I really that bad-looking?"

"'Ugh' because it hurts, you egomaniac. You look fine." Jazz managed to give him a withering look while still wincing. Impressive.

"Just 'fine'?" Now Mirage really _was_ fishing.

"Primus save us." Jazz groaned. "You look good, okay? You're a handsome guy. I'm afraid if I properly compliment you, your ego might swell to the point where you can't fit it through doorways."

"Impertinent little…!" Mirage gave Jazz's shoulder a quick hit that was not meant to hurt. "So, do I look the way you imagined?"

"You're incorrigible." Jazz paused and mulled it over. "But yeah, you look pretty much the way I thought you might. Very aristocratic."

"You think?" Mirage's preening was only partly in jest; he really was secretly enjoying indulging his vanity.

"Yes. Y'know, usually I prefer blue optics on 'bots, but the gold really works for you. I approve." Jazz gave him a pained smile and Mirage pulled himself out of his self-centered daze. He realized with a start how very tired his attendant looked, standing with his head in his hands and his weight off the braced leg.

"Jazz…" he said.

"Yeah?"

"Go home."

"What?" Jazz looked up with a start.

"I said, 'go home'. I don't really need you for the rest of the day, and you're tired. And you need rest. You're still recovering, tough-'bot." Mirage gave him a pat on the shoulder.

Jazz looked uncomfortable. "No, it's okay." He removed his hands from his head and straightened. "I'm okay. I promise. There's stuff I can do, I've got days of chores backed up on me…"

"Jazz." Mirage made his voice stern and final. "Go home."

"I can't." Jazz said in a small voice.

"What? Why not?" Mirage asked, surprised.

Jazz avoided his gaze. "Pacer and Swing won't be off work yet, so they can't walk me back."

"What do you mean, walk you back? You've been walking back by yourself since…_Oh_." It all came together – Jazz's early arrival, his unusual timid clinginess when they were walking anywhere. Sometimes Mirage was so slow to catch on that he amazed himself.

"Yeah, yeah." Jazz's voice was embarrassed, defensive, and…that hint of bitterness from earlier was back. "Yeah, I'm scared. I'm scared to walk around on my own now. There."

"Jazz-"

"Please don't try to tell me some stupid slag, like 'it could have happened to anyone'." Jazz's voice was mocking, and then hard again. "It couldn't have happened to anyone. It could have happened to someone who _can't see_. Like _me_. And now…I can't slagging trust myself. I-" He looked like he wanted to say more, but swallowed his words, and just stood there glaring sightlessly at some place on the floor to his left. Mirage could hear his vents cycling air.

Mirage's first impulse was to gather Jazz in his arms like a sparkling, and pet him and shush him and tell him everything would be okay. But they weren't sparklings – they were adults. Young adults, true, but adults. Or nearly so. Far past hugging age. More importantly, they were from two completely different castes. For all the improprieties they committed, he was the master and Jazz was the servant. An embrace like that was unthinkable; he was sure Jazz would agree. So what could he do?

"Jazz…how about if I walk you home? That way, we won't have to bother Pacer and Swing at all." Mirage tried to sound as gentle as possible.

"I couldn't." The anger had drained from Jazz's voice and left behind tired embarrassment. "That's – you don't have to do that."

"No, I want to." Mirage added a touch of firmness. "It's not a problem at all. It's not like the exercise will kill me. I'll walk you home until you feel okay to walk on your own again."

"What if that takes awhile?" Jazz asked quietly.

"Then that's how long I'll do it for. Come on." Mirage moved out and was relieved to feel Jazz fall into step behind him without further protest. When they were about halfway across the lawn, Jazz spoke, his voice low.

"Thank you, Mirage."

Mirage felt something in his vocal processor involuntarily tighten. He carefully loosened it before he replied. "It's no problem at all. You'd do the same for me. Come on, let's get you home...back to the lever and pulley farm."

Jazz's laughter sounded a bit forced, but it was still laughter. "I'm just a gear, myself."

"Oh, is that why you're so grumpy?" Mirage asked archly.

The chuckles now sounded a bit more real. "Yeah, it must be."

_I can still make him laugh. It'll be okay_. Mirage thought.

Something quick flashed across their path. Mirage glanced back, but it seemed Jazz hadn't seen it. Mirage didn't say anything, but he watched the turbofox run until it disappeared in the distance as he continued to guide Jazz back home.

* * *

At the risk of sounding redundant, I want to thank everyone who's been reading and extra-thank everyone who's been commenting. I really do appreciate it!

And a note: the rating will go up to M next chapter. Fair warning.


	10. Chapter 10

Note: we're fast forwarding another five stellar cycles from the end of the last chapter here.

* * *

**Noblesse Oblige**

Chapter Ten

* * *

Something was changing, Mirage could feel it. It had started gradually, but seemed to be building momentum as it went along. It had to do with his way of perceiving things, his body's reactions, strange new thoughts that would pop into his mind and leave his processors reeling, wondering, _Where did that come from_?

It wasn't just him, he was sure. He noticed it when he was hanging around with the Tower brats – they were all around the same age and something seemed to be affecting them all. The dynamic of their group shifted in subtle ways, strange tensions that Mirage couldn't explain arising from nowhere. Some of the other 'bots began to tell jokes that Mirage couldn't really understand, though he knew enough to realize they were dirty. Though the actual meaning of the leered insinuations and obscene hand gestures were generally above his head, Mirage laughed along with the others.

Increasingly it was feeling…as though he wasn't comfortable in his own skin. Not in pain, just…like there was a constant itch he couldn't seem to scratch. It increased in certain situations, such as when he was with the Tower brats. They'd been in each other's company since they were sparklings, and were used to a certain level of competitive scrutiny. Now, though, Mirage felt himself eyeing his friends with something more than objective aesthetic appreciation in mind. Details – the curve of a thigh, the shape of an aft, the strong cables working in another mech's neck – would elicit a tingling in his circuits, a skip in his fuel pump, a heat where his legs met.

More and more, he felt his gaze settling on Torchlight. He was the rebellious son of Nightlight, one of Oblique's closest friends. Unlike most of his compatriots, he hadn't taken on his sire's traditional dark midnight blue coloring. He was orange, a color Mirage normally eschewed as crass, but he was such a deep, rich, almost red orange… And he carried it well. He was haughty and mischievous, with an air of always being in on a joke that no one else was. His blue optics weren't the ideal for a noblemech, but they somehow worked for him, twinkling above his upturned nose and the curve of his smirk.

Mirage had been aware for awhile that things were going on behind the scenes. Connections were being made, semisecret liaisons… Nothing was serious, or permanent, of course, but Mirage couldn't help but feel a little left out. And then, one day, he noticed a new dynamic between Torchlight and Shade. Little unnecessary touches, subtly possessive smirks…_They've been together_. Mirage had no idea why he was so bothered by this, so…jealous, he realized. Mirage felt on fire with the need to do something about it, but the 'how' escaped him entirely, and so he did nothing.

Meanwhile, Cybertron kept turning, and life continued, seemingly as normal. Schoolwork, combat lessons, dance lessons, music lessons. Turbofox hunts, high society balls, exclusive energon parties, formal evening meals. As Mirage grew older, his list of social obligations grew longer. Fortunately, he had Jazz to rely on.

As Pacer managed Oblique's schedule, Jazz learned to manage Mirage's. They set up an audio interface with the scheduling program on the computer, but it turned out to be mostly redundant. Jazz memorized his schedule, setting up dedicated folders within his own processor. The computer served merely as a backup.

Thank Primus for Jazz. As the pressures of impending maturity increased, Mirage grew more grateful for the comfortable dynamic he had with his attendant. It had taken about half a solar cycle since Jazz's accident for things to return to normal, or close to it. His strength had returned, and he lost the brace and the limp. Rebuilding his confidence had taken longer. For a long time, the servant remained timid and unsure, and Mirage despaired.

Then one day Jazz announced that he couldn't give in to fear; he would do what he could to control his situation and leave the rest to the universe and Primus. Mirage secretly rolled his optics at Jazz's faith in placing his life in the hands of his deity, but said nothing. And it seemed to work. As if a switch had been flipped, things steadily got better. By now, Mirage was sure that no outside observer would be able to tell the difference between 'Jazz before' and 'Jazz after'.

He could tell, though the differences were subtle. Jazz was slightly less apt to wander and explore now, generally maintaining a closer radius around his master. He was showing his serious side more often, too. Part of that was a function of his increasing responsibilities as an attendant, and part of it wasn't. He hadn't become a downer – far from it. He was still friendly and funny and wisecracking, and he was still generous with his dazzling smiles.

But in private, if something bothered him, he would sometimes let it show, if only for a fleeting nano-klik. Mirage occasionally came across him in moments of silent, serious contemplation, which he'd shake himself out of with a grin when he realized Mirage was near. And there was something else, something less noticeable, something he almost couldn't define. If he had to put a name to it, he'd say it was a little bit similar to the strange tensions he was feeling with his peers from The Towers. But that was absurd.

* * *

One morning, Oblique summoned Mirage to his office, with express instructions to leave Jazz behind. Mirage agreed and clicked off. He and Jazz shared a puzzled look.

"What d'you think that's all about?" Jazz asked.

"How should I know?" Mirage shrugged exaggeratedly. "I'll find out, I guess."

"Good luck, buddy." Jazz turned back to his cleaning and gave him a wave over his shoulder as Mirage headed out the door.

Mirage's curiosity was well and truly piqued by the time he arrived at Oblique's offices and was let in. Oblique was, as always, seated behind his great desk and Pacer stood impassively in his nook in the wall. Oblique gave his son a small smile.

"Mirage, good morning. Thank you for coming." Then he turned slightly in his chair. "Pacer, if you would excuse us…"

"Certainly, Master." The servant glided out of the room without so much as a glance at Mirage. Confusion added itself to the curiosity in Mirage's mind. Oblique and Pacer were _always_ together, at least until Pacer returned to Swing and Jazz at night. What could Oblique possibly have to say to him that couldn't be said in front of Pacer?

Whatever it was, Oblique didn't seem to be in a hurry to say it. He pursed his lips and folded his hands, then re-folded them. He opened his mouth slightly, then closed it and leaned back in his chair. After a moment, he sat forward again, stroking his chin.

_Holy Primus_, it dawned on Mirage. _He's uncomfortable…nervous?_ He recognized the behaviors, but they were totally alien on his sire. He'd never seen Oblique act anything other than completely sure of himself. This was new. And somewhat unnerving.

Finally, Oblique spoke, though he didn't sound like himself. "Mirage, it has come to my attention…" He trailed off, and tried again. "I have become aware…" He looked flustered and frustrated. "Mirage, I believe you've come to an age when young mechs begin to experience…changes. New…feelings. Sensations. Desires. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

Mirage did, and he understood why Oblique was so uncomfortable. This was weird. "Um, yes, sir." He managed.

Oblique seemed to relax a bit. "I know this seems strange to speak with me about. But these changes are important, Mirage. And they're perfectly natural. Tell me, have you…acted on any of these desires?"

"Um, no. Sir." Thank PRIMUS that was the truth. He didn't think he could have handled detailing something like that to his sire.

"And that's perfectly all right, too. Everyone moves at their own pace. But when the time comes, know that it's perfectly fine and natural. And fun." He smiled. "It's enjoyable. It's supposed to be. It's one of the great pleasures of life. And you have a fine crop of friends to play with. May I ask if you have your optics on any particular one? You don't have to tell me who."

"Um, yes, sir. I do." This just kept getting more and more surreal.

Oblique nodded. "Good. Just don't take things too seriously. Interfacing with another mech doesn't tie you to him, and it doesn't mean you owe each other anything. It's a pastime, that's all. A very…enjoyable and rewarding pastime, but nothing more. Don't make it out to be more than it is, that'll only make you look foolish."

"No, sir."

"Do you…" Oblique looked awkward again. "Do you have any questions? About it? I can try to answer them for you, and there are several excellent datatracks on the subject that I can recommend."

Mirage had been reading datatracks on the subject himself. They tended to fall into two categories. Some were flowery and used poetic language with lots of euphemisms. They were expressive, he supposed, but they weren't very helpful, especially when it came down to the 'how's of the matter. The others were precise and clinical, and while they provided plenty of specifics, there was certainly something left wanting. There had to be more to the experience than just the techniques the datatracks described, but he would burn forever in the Pit before he asked Oblique about that.

"Um, no. No questions I can think of. Sir."

"Well, if you do think of any, you just have to ask. I'm your father. It's my job to be here for you, as strange a subject as it seems." He smiled kindly.

"Thank you, sir. I – appreciate it."

"Just a few things more." Oblique looked serious again. "Don't finger other people's ports, and don't let them finger yours. It's crude. Stay in control of the situation – remember who you are. If you engage in sparkplay, for Primacron's sake, be careful. You don't want to end up bonded or some silly thing. Look at Pacer and Swing – let that be a warning to you."

"Yes, sir…no, sir." Mirage didn't quite understand that last one – Pacer and Swing were the only real-life bonded couple he'd ever heard of, so the same thing happening to him seemed unlikely, to say the least. And he wasn't sure what about Pacer and Swing was so wrong – except, obviously, that they were poor. But that didn't have anything to do with it. Did it? It was easier just to agree with his sire.

"One more thing." Now Oblique was wearing his most imposing expression, the one that sent mechs of all castes scurrying in fear. He leaned forward. "Do NOT let me catch you with that attendant of yours. Don't even think about it. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir. Completely."

Oblique relaxed and smiled again. "Good. I know this was a bit awkward, but thank you for listening. I'm always here for you. I trust you to make good choices, and I know you'll continue to make me proud. We're done here, unless you have anything to add. Have a good rest of the day – I'll see you at evening meal."

Mirage stammered his goodbyes and fled. It took all of his self-control to remain at a dignified (if fast) walk instead of breaking into a run. _What just happened?_ Mirage felt like yanking his CPU out and handing it over for Jazz for a good scrubbing. He reached his quarters and nearly staggered with relief when he was inside with the door sliding shut behind him.

Jazz glanced up from his polishing. "So? What was that all about?" he asked.

"Um, it was nothing, really. Not anything. Just…business stuff." While Mirage didn't tell Jazz _everything_, he wasn't used to lying to him. Apparently, he was bad at it.

Jazz gave him a look that plainly said 'you're full of it'. "Right. Whatever you say." He shrugged and turned back to his work.

Mirage thanked Primus, Primacron, whatever superior forces there may be that Jazz didn't force the issue. It was bizarre enough with Oblique. He frowned, remembering Oblique's last warning to him. He'd never thought of Jazz that way; such an idea had never entered his processor. Had it? But the idea was there now, and Mirage couldn't figure out whether it was all-new, or if hints of it had been there before.

He'd never _consciously_ considered his attendant as a potential partner for interfacing, he was sure about that. But Primus help him, he was considering it now. On some level, it made sense, sort of. After all, there was no one he was more comfortable with than Jazz. If they hadn't been of different social classes, he would seem like a natural choice. And he'd always known Jazz was good-looking, for a common 'bot. Except for those strange optics, but Mirage had gotten used to them. He even found himself surprised at the shocked reactions other mechs had to the eerie white optics when he and his attendant were out in public. In any case, Jazz was far from unpleasant to look at. He wondered if the idea had occurred to his attendant. Such a thing would be wildly inappropriate and above his station, but… it would explain some of the strange tensions that had been arising lately.

"What? Do I have something on me?" Jazz was giving him a hard look. Mirage had been staring.

"What? Oh – no. Sorry. I was just thinking for a second. My processor must have glitched. Excuse me." Jazz raised his optic ridges but said nothing and Mirage escaped to the other room.

* * *

When had bath time gotten so complicated?

Jazz had been bathing Mirage since they were both barely more than sparklings – it was a part of his job, part of their daily routine. It was pleasant, of course. It was supposed to be pleasantly businesslike, but nothing more. Lately, though…he didn't _think_ anything about the movement of Jazz's hands was significantly different, but the way his body reacted to those movements had changed. He had been trying to ignore it, but after a day of thinking of very little other than interfacing, that was no longer possible. What he could still do – HAD to do – was keep his body's reactions to Jazz's ministrations a secret.

It was getting harder, though. Jazz was working on his legs, his hands massaging as he cleaned. It felt good; it always did. It just felt a little extra-good now, comforting and relaxing and…! Jazz was rubbing at the insides of his thighs, and the sensation sent icy tendrils of sensation spreading out from the touch to the rest of Mirage's body. He shivered a little despite himself.

"Something wrong?" Jazz asked.

"No, nothing. Just got chilly there for a nano-klik. Keep going." Mirage gritted his dental plates. He retained control until Jazz worked his way up and began rubbing at the plating between his legs. The icy shivers returned, stronger this time, accompanied by a strange but wonderful heat.

"Hey, what's up?" Jazz pulled back again when Mirage trembled a little. "You going ticklish on me after all this time?"

"No. I 'm not – It's nothing."

"Mmmmm-hmmmm." Jazz resumed his work and Mirage did his best to think about unsexy things so he wouldn't give in to the delicious sensations that the hands were eliciting because it was wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong…

Jazz finished his back and came around to his right side, fingers working skillfully among the metal plating and into the sensitive wiring. Mirage was clenching his dental plates so hard he was afraid they might crack, to keep from voicing any yelps at the twinges of pleasure Jazz's hands were eliciting.

When the attendant came around and began to work on the front of his chassis, Mirage started to lose it. This was wrong. It was unthinkable. Even if Oblique hadn't said so, he'd have known it was wrong. But his body was sending him different messages, telling him the wait was over, the time was now. The heat was almost unbearable – couldn't Jazz feel it? He could hear the noise of his air vents as they attempted to cool him off; certainly the other mech had to hear them, too.

_I can't. You can. _He tried to ignore the touches, but then he looked down. It was the hands – the sight of those black hands spread out on his chest sent his processor into wild overdrive. And Jazz's face, concentrating on his body… _What do I do what do I do what do I do what do I do…_ Then he knew. Without allowing himself to think further, he reached out and grasped the sides of Jazz's head in his hands. As gently as he could manage, considering his overwhelming need, he pulled the silver face up and bent to meet it, covering Jazz's mouth with his own. _Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong…right_.

* * *

What do you mean, leave you hanging? I wouldn't do that. Oh, wait, I guess I would.

Thanks, as always, to everyone who's been reading and commenting! I really, really appreciate it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Noblesse Oblige**

Chapter Eleven

* * *

This close, the frantic sparking of Jazz's optics was so bright that it hurt Mirage's, so he offlined his own. Now he didn't have anything other than Jazz's mouth under his to concentrate on. It felt nice…good…but Mirage had a hunch it could be better. He moved his mouth, adjusting positions…_better_…was it his imagination, or was Jazz's mouth moving too? He focused on the lower lip, nipping and tugging at it. _What is the acceptable time limit for a kiss? _He had no idea, but it wouldn't do to overstay his welcome. _Rude guests don't get invited back_. Reluctantly, he pulled away, flicking his optics back online.

When their faces were a little way apart, Jazz shoved him. Not hard, no intention to hurt, he just used the hands that were already on Mirage's chest to put an arm's length or so of distance between them. His optics flickered as he gaped at Mirage.

"What was that?" he demanded. He sounded shocked, but not angry, Mirage noted. At least he didn't _think_ that was anger…

"Um, it was…well, you seemed to know." Mirage sounded lame, even to himself.

"Yeah, I kind of figured it out." Was sarcasm a good sign or a bad sign? "But, Primus, Mirage, _why_?"

"I – You – I felt…" Mirage gave up on the 'why'. "It didn't seem like you minded too much," he said tentatively instead.

Jazz shut off his optics for a moment as if everything was too much. When he turned them on again, he said, "Well, no, I didn't. But that's not what matters. You – I don't think you're thinking this through."

"I've thought about it. I'm done thinking." Mirage hadn't meant that to sound as…predatory as it did.

"Not to bring up bad memories, but I can't help being reminded of a certain hunting speeder crash."

"What about it?" Mirage was impatient; trying not to show it.

"I wasn't sure that was a good idea either." Jazz pointed out.

"This is different." _Is it_?

"I'm not so sure it is. Mirage, I feel strange being the one to say this, but do you remember who – _what_ I am? Who you are?"

"You're not a 'what'." Mirage took a small step forward.

"Uh-huh. Right." Jazz was giving him a dubious look, but he didn't back up. "Okay, even if we leave that…" He sighed. "Mirage, I know what you want, and it's not me. You want Torchlight, remember?"

"Um, that's…" Had he really talked that much about Torchlight? _Guess so_. "Well, yes. But you…" He wasn't sure how to continue.

"I think I get it." Jazz nodded slowly.

"You do?" Was this a good thing or a bad thing?

"I'm a practice run." Jazz said simply.

"A practice run?" Mirage echoed dumbly.

"Yeah. You've been feeling…like this…for awhile now. But you haven't yet. Interfaced, I mean. You want to, especially with Torchlight, but you're nervous. You're afraid you'll screw up and embarrass yourself and your friends won't let you live it down. And thus…" he gave a little bow, indicating himself. "…practice."

Mirage would have liked to deny it, but Jazz had managed to pinpoint his thoughts _exactly_. That uncanny perception of his seemed even more inconvenient than usual. And when it was said out loud like that, it sounded a lot like he was callously using his attendant. And it wasn't as simple as that. Or at least, it _felt_ more complicated.

"It's…it's not exactly like that," was what he managed to say. "It's…right now it's about you, too. I wouldn't use you."

"Use me?" Jazz sounded amused. "Of course you would use me. You use me all the time. I'm your _servant_. That's what I'm _for_."

"That's not…" Mirage had no idea what to say. And what was with that weird guilty feeling?

"Relax." Mirage glanced at Jazz and was shocked to find a sincere smile on the smaller 'bot's face. "I didn't say I minded. I'm used to it. Besides, what's a bit of using between….well, us?"

"What are you saying?" That had sounded almost like agreement, but Mirage wanted to make sure.

"I'm saying…" Jazz took a step forward. "…if this is really something you want to do, then…I'm in."

"Wait, what about you? What do you want?" Now that Mirage had the go-ahead, he was suddenly unsure.

Jazz laughed as if that was the funniest joke he'd ever heard. "What I want? We both know this isn't about what I want." Then he seemed to relent, and in a softer voice he said, "But if it did matter, then yeah. I want this too."

They stood there for a moment, and then both mechs laughed nervously. "Have you…done this before?" Mirage asked.

"Have I…" Jazz was incredulous. "Mirage, I'm _blind_. I live in a two-bedroom apartment with my sires. I can't go anywhere. You're the only person my age I know. And I spend ninety-eight per cent of my waking life with you. So, have I done this before? What do you _think_?"

"Oh." There was another pause. "I'm not sure how to start this." Mirage admitted.

"You know," Jazz said, sounding as if he was talking to a very stupid sparkling, "I bet you could start by kissing me like that again, and we can figure it out from there."

Implied insult aside, it was a very good suggestion. Mirage leaned down, offlining his optics, and Jazz met him halfway. It was even better this time, maybe because this time, he knew it was mutual. He moved his mouth, and Jazz's moved with it. He went for the lower lip again, but Jazz beat him to it. He marveled at the feel of the smaller mech's dental plates nibbling and tugging at him. He moaned a little into the kiss, and Jazz answered him with a hum that sounded almost like a growl.

He felt Jazz start to pull away. Both mechs turned their optics back online and stood apart. Mirage could hear Jazz's vents frantically cycling air. Just like his own.

"My berth?" Mirage gasped.

"I think that's a very good idea," agreed Jazz. And then Mirage grabbed the smaller 'bot's hand and they were scrambling ungracefully together toward their goal.

"Lights at one quarter," Mirage choked out, and the lights dimmed as he and Jazz flung themselves onto the berth side by side. He grabbed Jazz's face again and kissed him, amazed that something so simple could feel so good. He felt Jazz's hands on his chassis, smoothing down the front of his chest. Somehow the gesture went straight to Mirage's processor, made him feel strong and powerful. His engine revved loudly. _Stay in control_. He broke the kiss and leapt forward, rolling Jazz onto his back as Mirage straddled him.

"Ah - !" The noise Jazz made was of surprise, not protest. He reached up and pulled Mirage down for another hungry, demanding kiss. His hands were on Mirage's head for the first time, and after he was satisfied that the blue 'bot wasn't going anywhere, he loosened his hold and let his hands explore. At the feel of fingers delicately stroking the ridges of the crests on the sides of his face, Mirage nearly lost it. He'd never thought of his crests as particularly sensitive, but now – Primus! Each fluttering touch ignited nerve endings that made his head swim with the sensation. His systems flashed a warning. _No, not now. _He pulled out of the kiss, frantically rerouting systems. He couldn't overload so soon, that would be humiliating. Jazz's hands stayed on his crests, stroking and teasing. To keep himself from screaming in pleasure, Mirage leaned down and bit Jazz on the shoulder. Hard.

Jazz yowled and tensed. When he arched up his body to meet Mirage's, the blue mech grinned, sensing opportunity. He blew a puff of heated air down onto the spot where he'd bitten the small mech, as if to heal it. Then he nuzzled his way along the shoulder line and bit down again. He was rewarded with a strangled yelp. Jazz rolled his head back and forth, his optics wide and sparking wildly. He reached up unconsciously to stroke one of the hornlike antennae protruding from his helmet. Mirage took the hint and knocked Jazz's hands away, replacing then with his own.

At the feel of Mirage's hands on his antennae, Jazz shivered and purred. He reached up to reciprocate, tracing the details of his master's face crests as Mirage moaned in appreciation. Mirage could feel his fuel pump beating fast and hard, and when he spared a hand from Jazz's helm and dropped it to the black-and-white mech's chest, he could feel the other's fuel pump too. It was a wild sensation – he'd never felt so in touch with his own body, let alone someone else's. It was all so new.

Mirage realized they could probably overload this way, just pressing their bodies together and stimulating each other's overly sensitive headsculpts. But he wanted more. He knew that he wasn't going to get to try every technique in the 'tracks this first time out, but he was going to experiment while he could. _What to do_? It was hard to think. Wait – he had it! Something that had felt good to him, just a short time before. He eased down Jazz's body, abandoning his horns. Before Jazz got off much more than a small whimper of protest, he slid one of his hands between the black-and-white mech's thighs, and started to stroke.

The response was immediate. Jazz screamed, and bucked up violently into his hand. Mirage smiled. _Success_. "You like that?" he purred, nuzzling Jazz's midsection.

"Yes! _Yes_! Primus, don't stop! Please…" Jazz threw his arms around Mirage and clung to him. Mirage could feel fingers digging into his back in a way that was almost painful and sure to leave a mark, but felt _so_ damn good. He kept his own hand moving, tracing the inside of one thigh, then the other, and then hard up in the center in a way that made Jazz thrash. His other hand moved haphazardly, groping at whatever it could find on his companion's torso. It reached Jazz's face, and Mirage stroked it blindly until Jazz bit his finger.

Mirage gasped, and Jazz let go, replacing the bite of his dental plates with the caress of his mouth. He nuzzled and suckled at the injured digit until Mirage thought he wouldn't be able to stand it anymore, and then he moved on to the next one, biting down and repeating the treatment with the rest of the fingers on Mirage's hand. Mirage moaned into Jazz's chest. This wasn't in any of the datatracks, but it should be. He would never have guessed that such attention to his hands – ah! Another bite – would be so erotic.

He was going to have to end this. He was losing it, fast, and he'd be damned if he'd go into overload without Jazz. He rededicated himself to his efforts between the smaller bot's legs and Jazz screamed again, apparently forgetting his fingers. Mirage smiled in satisfaction. He had the smaller 'bot whipped into a frenzy. It was a wild ride, but he was in control. He –

Jazz's hands were suddenly at his sides, _in_ his sides, alternately digging roughly and stroking tenderly at the delicate wiring underneath. Mirage found it hard to see, his vision blurring, warnings flashing and then Jazz's fingers found a dataport and teased it and it was all too much. Mirage's vision flashed white, then red. His body crackled with energy, and he could feel the energy from Jazz's body, arching up to meet him. He realized belatedly that the scream in his audios belonged to him, this time. No, wait, Jazz was screaming too, they were screaming and they were together and then everything went black.

When his optics flickered back online, Mirage had no idea how much time had passed while he was out. His systems were still fritzing from the overload. His _first_ overload, he thought in awe. _Wow_.

A soft moan from underneath him reminded him that he hadn't been alone for the experience. He raised his head to look at Jazz, who was lying back with his mouth slightly open and his optics glowing with a soft but steady white light. "Are…you okay?" Mirage asked.

Jazz turned his face toward Mirage and chuckled softly. "Oh, I'm more than okay," he said. "Though, if your intention is to correct that by crushing me to death…"

"Oh! Sorry." Mirage hastily rolled off, sprawling on his belly at Jazz's side.

The attendant chuckled again. "I was mostly kidding," he admitted. "You're not that heavy. Though, this does make it a little easier on my cooling system." Mirage could hear the vents, both Jazz's and his own, cycling air to cool their systems. For awhile he listened in silence to the rhythm they made.

"I guess I'm grateful that this house is so big." Mirage said finally, "And that my rooms aren't anywhere near anything else."

"Ha! Tell me about it!" Jazz cackled. "Try living in a tiny apartment with a bonded pair. And those walls aren't exactly thick, either."

"Ugh." Mirage grimaced in sympathy, even though Jazz couldn't see it. "Your own sires? That must be…disturbing."

"Oh, they're not the only ones." Jazz was stretching, and it was very becoming. His voice held a note of 'I-know-something-that-you-don't-know'.

"Really? Who else?" It must be someone interesting, or Jazz wouldn't bring it up to tease him with.

"I'm not telling you."

"Really? Then I'm not doing this…" Mirage snaked a hand between Jazz's thighs for a gentle brush and pulled it back as Jazz gasped "…ever again."

"Okay, okay! You win! But it's a secret. You can't let anyone know I told you. Promise," Jazz surrendered.

"I promise." Mirage weakly held up his hand in salute.

"Warder and Sprocket."

"Warder and Sprocket? Really? For how long?" That was more of a surprise than it should have been, probably.

Jazz laughed. "For-slagging-ever. A _long_ damn time. But it's supposed to be a secret, even though pretty much all of the servants know."

"They're not, you know, _bonded_ or anything, are they?" Mirage asked.

Jazz laughed again. "No, you don't have to worry. My sires are the only throwback wierdos around. Everyone else's romantic affairs and sordid entanglements are just ordinary, run-of-the-mill screwed up."

There was a period of silence. Mirage tried to run over Oblique's rules. What had they been? _No fingering of ports_. Well, to the Pit with that. Crude or not, the feel of Jazz's fingers on his dataport… It was such a deliciously dirty thrill, Mirage knew there would be more of that in the future. _Stay in control_. Well, that was debatable. He'd been on top most of the time – did that count? _Remember who you are._ Um. He certainly was aware of who he was _now_ – he was Mirage, princeling of the Towers, ruler of all he surveyed. During the actual interfacing, though, he suspected that if someone suggested he was Sentinel Prime or Unicron, he'd have readily agreed. _Be careful during sparkplay_. Hadn't come up. Mirage was pretty sure it wouldn't for awhile, either. They'd only just scratched the surface and just that had overwhelmed him. There was SO much to get through before one even got to any kind of sparkplay. _No bonding_. Ha. No fear there.

_Don't interface with Jazz._ …yeah. Technically, his sire had said not to let him _catch_ Mirage interfacing with Jazz, but Mirage suspected this was definitely a case where Oblique wouldn't be interested in debating semantics. Outright disobedience of his sire was new to him; he'd never really understood the appeal of the rebellion that so many of his friends delighted in. Now, feeling the twinges of wicked excitement along with the lingering aftereffects of the overload, he thought he got it. _Maybe a little rebellion now and again is good for a person_.

Mirage offlined his optics and laughed a little; he couldn't help himself. "Primus, Oblique would be _so_ mad if he found out about this," he said. He was amused at himself; at his new disobedient streak.

"What's that?"

"Oblique. He'd be furious," Mirage explained, relaxed. He kept his optics offline and spoke into the dark. "Just today, he specifically forbid me from interfacing with you."

"Oblique is a hypocrite." Jazz said flatly.

Mirage snapped his optics on and turned his head to look at Jazz. "_What_?"

Jazz lay serenely on his back, gazing up at the ceiling. "You heard me," he said evenly.

Mirage sat up a little. "Wait. What- Are you saying…my father…and Pacer…"

"Interfacing? Yes." Jazz said coolly.

"But- really? Since when?"

"Since forever, as far as I've been able to tell." How was Jazz sounding so casual about this?

"But…" Mirage was beyond confused. "Your sires are _bonded_."

"Yeah, I know." There it was. Finally there was an edge to Jazz's voice that betrayed the fact that he was bothered. "It makes things…awkward. Pacer and Swing fight about it all the time. _Still_. They think they're hiding it from me, but _of course _I know." Things were silent for a few moments.

"That's…weird." Mirage said at last, propping his head up with a bent arm.

Jazz turned to him, arching an optic ridge. "It's weird? What part is weird to you?" His voice was caustic. "The fact that it's Pacer? The fact that it's my father and your father? The fact that your father is sleeping with one half of a bonded couple? Or the fact that it's an aristocrat – like _you _– and a servant – like _me_?"

"No! No, it's not like that. I'm just surprised, that's all. I never thought of it before. I probably should have. I guess it's just strange because of the bonding, you know, with your parents." Mirage was tripping over himself, trying not to say the wrong thing. "It's not- It's not about the whole master and servant thing. I'm fine with that. Obviously." He reached out and touched Jazz's arm.

Jazz relented and smiled at him. "Obviously."

"I had fun," Mirage told him. "What about you?"

Jazz smirked. "I can tell you had fun. They can tell you had fun all the way in Kaon."

Mirage punched him lightly. "Hey, you were the one doing all the yelling."

"You helped, if I remember correctly." Jazz pointed out.

"I suppose I did." Mirage conceded the point.

"So………" Jazz drawled lazily, "What do you think? Do you think you have it all down? Are you good to go? Or do you think you'll be needing more…practice?"

"One can't underestimate the importance of regular practice sessions." Mirage did his best impression of their combat instructor.

Jazz gave him a sultry grin. "Mmmmmmm…I strive to serve you in any way I can."

* * *

Thank you, everybody, for the positive response I've been getting. All the comments and favorites and alerts really mean a lot. Thank you.


	12. Chapter 12

**Noblesse Oblige**

Chapter Twelve

* * *

After the first section of this chapter, we skip forward another three stellar cycles. So they've been together about thirteen at this point, for those of you who are keeping track.

* * *

Maybe practice doesn't make perfect, but it sure does help.

It doesn't hurt when it's fun, either.

Having discovered the joys of interfacing, Mirage was hooked. For a while, it seemed to be all he thought about. Fortunately, he had Jazz, and his attendant was every bit as eager and enthusiastic as he was. It was hard at first, not allowing the intimacy that arose during their play at night to bleed over into his behavior during the day. Sometimes he wondered how Oblique and Pacer managed it. And then he would swiftly resolve not to think of Oblique and Pacer.

After a while of experimenting with his attendant, Mirage summoned the confidence to try out his moves for real. At first he considered starting with one of the mechs he wasn't as interested in, as a trial run. But an unexpected moment alone with Torchlight and a little bit of some _exceptionally_ fine high-grade energon sparked his courage. Before he knew it, he was asking and Torchlight was accepting (!), and from there…oh sweet dear holy Primus.

Mirage was grateful for his practice sessions with Jazz; without them, he'd doubtlessly have made a fool of himself. As it was, once Mirage was alone in the semidarkness with the orange mech, he found his processors working overtime, summoning all the tricks he knew and working to combine them in new, hopefully interesting ways. When it all was over and Mirage had recovered enough to online his optics, he swept his gaze over Torchlight. He was sprawled gracelessly on his back, limbs akimbo as if he'd been dropped from a great height. Mirage could hear his vents panting air raggedly. Blue optics slowly regained their focus, and when they turned to him with a look of sincere amazement instead of their usual smug self-satisfaction, Mirage felt a rush of victory.

Of course, he didn't stop there. He wanted Torchlight again…and again…and again, and he found the other 'bot more than willing. After awhile, Mirage remembered Oblique's advice about not letting interfacing get him attached to any one particular 'bot. So Mirage began to reach out to other mechs in his circle of friends, and he found that Torchlight had been spreading rumors about him. Good ones. No one turned him down, and though Mirage felt a certain amount of pressure to perform up to expectations, it was a heady rush he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy.

Interfacing with the other Tower brats was different from interfacing with Jazz. Interfacing with Jazz was sheer fun, full of curious trial-and-error exploration. There was no ego involved (well, maybe a little). Mostly there was a sense of adventure alongside someone – the one person – with whom Mirage felt completely comfortable. 'Facing with the Tower brats was, like everything else with the Tower brats, a competition. And Mirage was _winning_. Not to say he wasn't having fun – he was. It seemed that prowess in the berth was the new status symbol, and Mirage was on top of the heap.

* * *

Solar cycles slipped by, and then stellar cycles. Not much changed, at least not for Mirage. He was distantly aware of tumultuous events outside the Towers that made Jazz mutter uneasily, but they didn't touch him, so he didn't care. Their tutoring and other sundry lessons continued, but for Mirage they began to be interspersed with more time spent with Oblique, learning to manage the estate and various businesses. Truth be told, Mirage wasn't exactly chomping at the bit to immerse himself in the world of adult responsibilities.

Oblique didn't push him too hard. It took a long time for Tower mechs to grow to maturity, much longer than regular 'bots on the outside. Like any other mech, they didn't actually physically _grow_ as they aged – their bodies were fully formed at birth – they just developed strength. But whereas it took many stellar cycles of training and education and careful raising for a mech from the Towers to be considered an adult; regular mechs were thrust into their lives almost immediately, learning a trade or going to the Academy or one of the other schools.

Oblique was openly disdainful: "It's pathetic - sparklings barely out of protoform pretending to be merchants or builders or what have you. And that Academy? Ha! You know how fast they churn the younglings through that place? A couple of stellar cycles, on average. Like a factory. That's what passes for education out there. Be grateful, Mirage, that you live somewhere where we value quality over quantity. Quality which can only be achieved with time and care. And the results speak for themselves. You get out of things what you put into them. And you, Mirage…you are my life's work." And then he would smile fondly and Mirage would have to resist the urge to beam stupidly at the pride in his sire's optics.

So Mirage didn't rush, and Oblique didn't push. They had plenty of time. And while Mirage wasn't actively seeking a greater role, he wasn't about to shirk his responsibilities. So on days when Oblique told Mirage to accompany him as he went about his business, Mirage did so.

Such as today. Oblique didn't have much outside business to conduct, and so he was showing his son the finer points of managing the house and estate. Jazz had stayed behind in Mirage's quarters, and Pacer was in the other room doing something-or-other, so father and son were alone. Mirage was paying…selective attention, at best. His thoughts wandered to the turbofox hunt that was scheduled in several solar cycles' time. He reminisced about the interfacing he'd had with Shade a few solar cycles ago, and looked forward to the interfacing he'd be doing with Jazz later that night. _Mmmmmm_.

Oblique was discussing annual household expenses. His computer screen displayed lists of…lists. Mirage's laptop was linked to his sire's computer, so he had access to the same files. He clicked through them rather…well, listlessly. Then one file caught his eye – the list of annual employee salaries. He opened it and scrolled through. The figures seemed a bit low to him, but since he tended to view money as infinite, he was probably a little biased. To be honest, he really didn't have an idea of what a fair wage was – that was what today was for, right? Besides, come to think of it, he guessed servants didn't really _need_ that much.

Wait – he was missing something. He scrolled back through the list, but it didn't seem to be there. His curiosity was piqued enough for him to speak up. "Oblique? Sir?"

His sire had been in the middle of a sentence, but oddly didn't seem annoyed at the interruption. "What is it, son?"

Mirage pointed to the list on his screen. "Where's Jazz?"

Oblique leaned over to see what his son was looking at. "What do you mean, 'where's Jazz'?"

"On the list," Mirage explained. "What's Jazz's annual salary?" He had been curious on this point for awhile.

Oblique furrowed his brow, giving his son a concerned look. "Mirage…" he said slowly, "I thought you understood. I don't _pay_ Jazz."

"You don't…pay…Jazz?" Mirage repeated. _What_? "Why not?"

His father sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I think you know why not, Mirage."

"No, I don't." This didn't make sense.

Oblique folded his hands. "Jazz…has always been a problem. Pacer and Swing – they're goodsparked, but shortsighted. It's a typical failing." He shrugged. "So when they had Jazz…they were ill-prepared, to say the least. And when their sparkling turned out like _that_ – helpless, unable to fend for himself…" he shrugged again. "I pay them both a fair wage, but they couldn't possibly support a third mech entirely, especially not one with Jazz's…special needs."

"So that's why…you gave him to me?"

Oblique nodded. "Yes. That's why. We hoped Jazz would learn enough to earn his place here, despite his difficulties. Though, to be truthful, I never intended for the arrangement to be permanent – I thought it'd be a good test of character for you, nothing more. I didn't think he would actually become useful, or that you would grow attached to him as you seem to have."

"But – he is useful, now." Mirage protested.

"Let's be honest, Mirage." His sire fixed him with a serious look. "Jazz remains here as a favor. A token of my appreciation for Pacer's vorns of dedication. While you may be content with the level of service he provides, the fact remains: Jazz is not, and never will be, a real attendant. And he cannot expect to be compensated as such – he understands that. He earns his keep here, but that's it." The firmness in his voice indicated that he considered the subject closed. "Now." He turned back to his own screen. "I was saying – maintenance is key in managing energy efficiency and keeping costs down. During the colder months of the stellar cycle…"

Mirage didn't hear anything he said – he was concentrating on feeling sick. All this time working for him and Jazz hadn't earned a single credit? There was a name for that sort of arrangement, they'd learned it from ancient history 'tracks. A mech working for no pay, with no way out… _Slave_. Was Jazz his slave?

Mirage ran over Oblique's explanation of the arrangement again and again, hoping his processors would make sense of it. They couldn't. And he couldn't think of a convincing argument that he could make to Oblique to change the situation. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

He endured the rest of the afternoon by nodding or shaking his head when he thought it was appropriate. None of the information being passed on to him by his sire was being absorbed. A horrified numbness crept over him; all he wanted was to put as much distance between himself and his father as possible. He excused himself at the earliest available opportunity, grateful that years of training allowed him to disguise his desperation to leave with politeness.

Once he was out of the offices, Mirage forgot all about his 'noble bearing' and just ran. He hadn't run in the house since he was a very, very young sparkling and had learned better. He passed Pacer in the hall at a full clip, and barely registered the older mech's head whipping around in disbelief as he flew by. When he got to his quarters, he looked for Jazz.

He found him bent over the computer with the scheduling program open. Before Mirage could get a word out, Jazz held up a finger over his shoulder. "Just a nano-klik," he said. He typed something, and the computer's neutral voice confirmed it. He straightened and turned to Mirage, his smile bright as usual. "Someone's got an art gallery opening to attend!" he teased in a singsong voice. "Sorry, couldn't get you out of this one," he said apologetically. "It's on the fourteenth…Mirage? What's wrong?" The smile melted off his face, replaced by concern.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" Mirage demanded. He was surprised at how angry he sounded. Come to think of it, he was surprised at how angry he felt – as though Jazz had been deceiving him for as long as they'd known each other.

"Tell you what?" Jazz was confused.

"That…that…" Mirage was having trouble saying it.

"That _what_? You have to tell me what I did wrong!" Jazz was alarmed now.

"You didn't do anything- Why didn't you tell me that you weren't getting paid?"

Jazz instantly calmed down. "Oh, that." He made a flicking motion as if the subject was a fleck of dust in the air.

"Yes, that!" Mirage wasn't reassured in the least. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Jazz furrowed his brow. "Um…I didn't think it was important?" he tried. "I thought you knew?"

"I don't! I mean, I didn't, not until just now. I just found out. I -" Mirage realized that despite an afternoon's worth of inner turmoil on the subject, he didn't know what to say.

"Mirage, maybe you should sit down." Jazz looked concerned. "Are you feeling okay? Can I get you a drink or something?"

"NO! I'm fine! You don't have to _get_ me anything!" Mirage caught himself yelling; he could hear his vents cycling air. _Get a hold of yourself. Calm_. "I'm fine," he repeated, in a more normal voice.

"If you say so." The attendant looked unconvinced. "Mirage, what's bothering you?" he asked carefully.

"What do you _think_ is bothering me? Doesn't it bother you?"

Jazz shrugged. "No, not really. Not anymore, if it ever did. I don't really think about it."

"Why not? It's not fair to you at all."

The look on Jazz's face was one of sad amusement. "Mirage…I don't know whether it's escaped you or not, but there's a lot about life that isn't fair." The sarcasm in his voice was gentle. "My life isn't fair. Most people's lives aren't. That's the way things are."

"It's not right," Mirage insisted.

"So? That's life. Get over it. I have." Jazz's tone was gentle and friendly, despite the harsh words. "Besides, there's a whole world full – a _universe_ full of people who have it much, much worse than you or I do."

"But you should get paid. You're not a sparkling anymore. Maybe if Pacer asked-"

"No. Mirage, you have to understand my position. I owe my existence – everything – to your father's good graces. I can't afford to test that. If I lost this job, if he kicked me out…I don't have a whole lot of options. Like, _any_. I need this."

Mirage felt miserable and guilty. "All this time…I've been making you do things...you didn't have a choice-"

"Mirage, what is this about?" Jazz asked.

"I don't know!" he wailed, throwing up his hands. "I don't know! It's just not right! It's-" Strong black hands caught his in midair and brought them down. Mirage hadn't seen Jazz cross the room, but he was standing there, holding Mirage's arms still, calming him.

"Mirage. It's okay. You don't have anything to feel bad about." Jazz looked him in the face, pale optics glowing softly, and gave him a small smile.

"But-" Mirage started to protest, but Jazz cut him off.

"Shhhh. No. Listen. We all have things we have to do, whether we want to or not. You don't 'make' me do anything. It's my job. And, lucky me, I happen to _like_ my job. I like _you_. Even when you're being a spoiled, arrogant menace. It's my pleasure to serve you. I mean it."

"I bet it's not what you would have chosen." Mirage sounded petulant.

"No," Jazz said honestly, "it's not. But it's good, anyway. I have a good life, Mirage. It's not like yours, but I'm healthy, I have enough energon. I have amazing sires who love me very much. I live with a bunch of really great mechs who I like. And I get to spend my days with someone I...um...with you."

Mirage didn't know what to say. He avoided Jazz's optics. Suddenly, he felt the other's arms around him, pulling him close and holding him tight. It wasn't right. Touching was supposed to be reserved for interfacing. This sort of _emotional_ intimacy was different, and very inappropriate. But Mirage felt himself give in to it. He wrapped his own arms around Jazz and wilted into the embrace. "It's okay…" he heard his companion murmur, stroking the ridge that ran down his back, "Everything's okay."

After awhile, Mirage pulled away and Jazz let him go. "Are you all right?" the attendant asked. Mirage nodded, wondering how he had come to be the one needing to be comforted.

"Jazz?" he ventured.

"Yeah?"

"What would you have done, you know, if…" Mirage trailed off.

"…if I could see?" Jazz prompted.

"Yes. If things were different, what would you have done, if you had the choice?"

Jazz smiled, and his optics looked far away. "I'd have gone to the Academy. Become an Autobot," he said without hesitating.

"Really?" Even though he'd kind of suspected that, Mirage still found himself surprised at the answer.

"Yeah. You know, fighting the good fight, bringing justice to the universe, all that slag." Jazz nodded a little dreamily.

"But…you've said yourself, the Autobots get it wrong sometimes."

Jazz laughed, and the faraway look left his face. "Mirage, no one gets it right all the time. Besides…" He grinned. "...the Autobots and I have something in common. We both try _real hard_."

* * *

I want to (again) thank everyone who has been reading and reviewing. I know I say this every time, but it really does mean the world to me.

I also want to gently reiterate what I said at the beginning of the first chapter - that _Noblesse Oblige_ is a prequel to other things, with different pairings. Also, I want to gently point back to the note about angst in the warnings. While much of the angst up to this point has been of the 'melodramatic teenage inner monologue' variety, that's not always going to be the case. Fair warning given? Okay.


	13. Chapter 13

**Noblesse Oblige**

Chapter Thirteen

* * *

We're fast forwarding again now, about two solar cycles from the end of the last chapter.

* * *

The kick was powerful. It would have hurt, a lot, if Mirage hadn't managed to step back out of the way. But only just; he could feel the breeze as Jazz's foot whipped past his nose. He avoided the next kick a little more easily. The smaller mech lunged at him with a punch. _That's odd_. Jazz had been in good form today, but this punch was sloppy and obvious and a little slow. Mirage sidestepped it and grabbed the black arm, using the smaller 'bot's momentum against him, swinging him in a circle that would end in Mirage using the force from Jazz's own body to put him down. Basic Diffusion technique. But something was wrong. Jazz was going down too easily, too hard – he was pulling Mirage down with him. _Little slagger tricked me and I fell for it_, thought Mirage as he went down. They rolled, head over heels, then broke apart. Jazz bounced up into a fighting crouch. Mirage hopped to his feet in front of him and sprung into a backflip, activating his electro-disruptor and winking out of view in midair.

It hardly seemed sporting, using an admittedly nasty trick on an already vision-impaired 'bot, but the pair had been sparring with each other for stellar cycles and Mirage knew his partner was far from out of the game. As he landed lightly, he saw Jazz tense and spread his hands out, palms down. He felt the now-familiar thrum of sonics as Jazz felt for him.

With a sound combining the more feral aspects of both a yell and a growl, the black-and-white mech launched himself at Mirage. Still invisible, Mirage attempted to duck out of the way, but this time Jazz was too fast for him. The smaller mech caught him by his shoulder, and the off-center impact sent him reeling backwards. It was too much; he couldn't recover his balance and he went down, his attacker on top of him.

Mirage attempted to writhe out of Jazz's grasp. With anyone else, the inability of his opponent to see which body parts were which might have granted Mirage the advantage he needed to succeed. But the blind 'bot had an edge: he was used to working with things he couldn't see, and he knew Mirage's body _very_ well. In short order, Mirage found himself prone, with his face to the floor and Jazz straddling his back, twisting his arm to subdue him.

"I've got you." Jazz was speaking through gritted dental plates. Mirage couldn't see him, of course, but he knew what his companion's victory grimace looked like. He tried an experimental wriggle and the pressure on his arm increased. Not enough to damage, just a little warning pain. "I _said_, I've got you. Quit squirming."

Mirage grinned into the floor. The fact that he enjoyed fighting still disturbed him, but he didn't feel as bad about it when Jazz won. That way it felt less like he was enjoying hurting Jazz.

"All right, you two," their instructor interjected. "Jazz, nicely played. Mirage, you had that coming. Feel free to become visible again any time now." When Mirage shimmered back into view, his grin had been replaced by a more in-character condescending smirk. Jazz let him up and he rolled over and lounged in an exaggeratedly relaxed sitting position.

"He had to get lucky sometime, I suppose." Mirage purred nastily.

"Lucky! Get up and let's go again and I'll show you lucky!" Jazz's over-the-top indignation was _mostly_ feigned.

"Don't you two have places to be?" their instructor reminded them. Jazz offered Mirage a hand and the aristocrat allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

"He's right, Jazz. _Do_ try to suppress your baser instincts. I think you have quite enough scuffs to buff out as is." Mirage made a show of inspecting his chassis.

"Well, bring _that_ on, then. I've never met a scuff I couldn't defeat." Jazz preened mockingly.

They managed reasonably respectful parting bows to their instructor and escaped. Their behavior settled once they were in the hall. It was fun sometimes to play at exaggerated versions of themselves, but now they had an audience and needed to fulfill their very real roles. And today, there was a large audience. The normally empty halls were filled with mechs. They were mostly servants, scurrying back and forth, but there were also mechs of Mirage's caste, visitors from The Dunes or The Valley, Cybertron's other high-end communities. Jazz stuck a little closer behind Mirage as they walked, as he tended to do in situations with more people.

The pair arrived back at Mirage's quarters and hit the washroom. Jazz set straight to work and Mirage helped point out the places that needed special attention. Appearance was always important, tonight especially so.

For all his talk of social obligations, Oblique was not as inclined to entertain as his contemporaries. He readily attended his friends' social functions, but was a little slow to invite others into his kingdom. The other Tower mechs forgave him his slightly reclusive tendencies. A mech as wealthy and well-bred as Oblique could afford to be a little eccentric. Besides, when Oblique did throw a party, it was unfailingly grand enough to make up for any deficit.

And tonight's ball was _big_. All of the Towers would be there, as well as high-class mechs from all across the planet, some key government officials, and….Sentinel Prime. Mirage had seen Sentinel Prime before at events, but to have him come to their house… Oblique and Mirage were neutrals, of course, so Mirage didn't get all starry-eyed at the 'mystical powers' of a Prime. But he was far from immune to the prestige that having the leader attend a function in their home would bestow.

Jazz was not allowed on the floor tonight. Of course, servants didn't attend functions, but it was traditional for a host's personal attendant to be on hand while his master stood greeting the guests. However, Oblique had decreed that Jazz's decidedly non-traditional appearance would be an unacceptable blot on such a momentous occasion.

Mirage would have tried harder to persuade his father otherwise, but Oblique had been in a foul mood recently. One of his recent business dealings had collapsed, and his sire was livid about it. It hardly set a festive mood in the deca-cycle or so leading up to the party, but there was no question of canceling it. It was important to keep up appearances; the ball was good damage control.

Mirage's jaw twitched. Jazz was detailing the shield emblem on his chest, focused on his work with tiny picks and brushes. His attendant was being absolutely professional, but Mirage's shield emblem was a particularly sensitive spot, and he was already in a good mood. Playfully he reached around to cup the left side of Jazz's aft, and squeezed.

"Hey. None of that," Jazz murmured, not looking up. Mirage grasped the right side of his attendant's aft and allowed both hands to trace its shape. He _was_ rather fond of it, after all.

Jazz flashed him A Look. "Mirage, knock it off," he insisted, through gritted dental plates.

Mirage smiled slyly. "And what if I don't want to?" A hand left the aft and stroked one of the horns on Jazz's helmet. The attendant gasped involuntarily and dropped one of his brushes; his optics flickered. Then he indignantly jerked his head away from his master's hand.

"Mirage, are you _trying_ to get me slagged?" he demanded. "If I don't finish you on time, your father will personally deactivate me, then dismantle me and use my components as party favors."

"No, he wouldn't do that." Mirage assured him. "Your components are far too cheap. They'd make lousy favors. We'd never hear the end of it."

"That's true." Jazz mulled it over. "He'd probably use them for turbofox bait, then."

"Probably." Mirage had let his hand creep back up to Jazz's helmet. He avoided the antennae, instead gently cupping the head from behind and stroking the ridge in the center. "Primus help those poor turbofoxes."

Jazz laughed a little. "Yeah, it'd sure be a shame if they keeled over from malnourishment before you got a chance to shoot them," he said dryly.

Mirage didn't want to talk about turbofoxes anymore. He had other wants occupying his processors. He leaned down for a kiss, but Jazz cut him off.

"Not. Now. Primus, Mirage, I've already got enough bodywork to do on you before tonight."

"Oh, you _definitely_ have bodywork to do on me." Mirage couldn't resist.

"Gah! You're impossible! Put a stopper in it, Mirage. If we interface now, it's going to eat up time. AND it's going to cause more damage for me to clean and polish and we're cutting it tight as it is. And if I don't finish, your father will kill me. And mine might help. Do you really want my death on your hands?" Mirage started to say something. "Don't answer that!" Jazz snapped quickly. He dropped to his knees and began feeling around on the floor for the lost brush.

"I was going to say, 'no'." Mirage stooped to pick up the missing brush, and pressed it into Jazz's hand.

Jazz smiled. "Thanks. You gonna behave now?"

"If I must." Mirage resumed his still posture.

"A proper noblemech like you should be able to cool his engines for a little while. Besides, good things come to those who wait, right? And tonight you'll have every eligible young mech on Cybertron crawling all over each other to 'face with you. They'll probably end up poisoning each other's energon and pushing each other off balconies."

"Mmmmmm. You do have a point." Mirage smiled at the thought.

"So who's it gonna be?" Jazz asked. "That weird white and green 'bot from The Dunes who kept sending you poetry?"

"Primus, no. Ugh. I'd forgotten all about him. Slag, do you think Oblique invited his family? I didn't think to check." Mirage was lost in horror for a moment.

Jazz chuckled. "Okay, scratch him. So who'll be the lucky mech? Torchlight? Shade? Quickstep? Sentinel Prime? Some handsome stranger?" He was cleaning his master's neck now, and Mirage was desperately fighting arousal. "No, wait. Don't tell me who. I bet I can guess."

Mirage raised an optic ridge. "You bet you can guess who I'm going to interface with tonight? All right, who?"

Jazz swatted the side of his head gently. "I'm not going to _tell_ you. You'd just go out and 'face with someone else just to prove me wrong."

"That's probably true," Mirage admitted. "But then how do I know if you got it right or not?"

"You'll just have to trust me," Jazz told him. "Have I ever lied to you?"

No. He hadn't. "If you have, you did a good job of it." Mirage told him. That earned him another swat. "Okay, okay, no. I trust you to tell the truth."

"Good. Then it's settled. It's not like it's a real bet anyway. I don't have anything you want, and you don't have anything I want. Well, except working optics, but I'm not coldsparked enough to take yours off you if I win." Jazz grinned.

"I wouldn't say you don't have _anything_ I want." Mirage allowed himself one last quick Jazz-aft-squeeze.

"Save it." Jazz's voice was terse, but Mirage could see the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile.

Jazz finished with Mirage and quickly made himself presentable. Whether or not he was actually allowed in public, he had to look his best. Mirage helpfully pointed out the areas on his attendant that needed attention. As they finished adjusting details, Mirage's comm came to life with Oblique's voice.

"Mirage? Where are you, son? Guests will be arriving soon."

"I'm ready. I'm on my way, sir." Mirage clicked off his comm. He turned to Jazz. "Well?"

"Oh, you're definitely ready. Your blurriness is extra-handsome today." Jazz nodded. "Well, I've got to scoot, myself. See how my glitchy aft can be of help." He gave his master a sly look. "Should I come in late tomorrow?"

"Maybe." Mirage considered. Yes, whoever wound up in his berth would probably appreciate the privacy. "Probably." He smirked. "We'll settle our bet then."

"I'm counting on it. Enjoy your party. Dance a few for me. And tomorrow, I want details!"

"Agreed." Mirage told him. They left the quarters, Mirage regal and Jazz professional. When their paths diverged, they separated without acknowledging each other. Mirage continued to the grand ballroom. When he entered, he had to suppress a shiver and grin of glee.

Thousands and thousands of tiny lights hung suspended near the ceiling, interspersed with sparkling crystals that reflected and refracted the light. Along the walls and near the columns rose giant luminescent living crystal structures, the same kind as the ones from the Helix Gardens in Praxus. They were rare and delicate and beautiful, and Oblique had arranged for their presence at no small expense. _Oh yes_. Mirage had never seen anything like it at any event he had ever attended. Trust his sire to come up with a way to outdo everyone, with class. The bar stretched out along one wall, servants busily setting up to serve all the different varieties of energon. Beyond that, the musicians were warming up.

Oblique was standing in the reception area. His armor shone and his expression was noble and smooth. There was no trace of the short-tempered, irritable mech who had been inhabiting his sire's body for the past few deca-cycles. Oblique was once again master of himself.

Pacer – Mirage could have laughed at Pacer. He was carefully remaining in Oblique's orbit, but his optics were on the room at large, and he kept stepping away to deliver an instruction or a direction or a critique to one of the legions of scurrying servants. Clearly, he was enjoying himself a little.

Mirage was aware that in the peculiar hierarchy of servants, the attendant to the Master of the house reigned supreme. Only the head butler came close, but the Master's personal attendant was the voice of the Master and that trumped everything. It was a fair tradeoff – to be a personal attendant was a lifetime commitment, with no days off. As far as Mirage knew, Pacer didn't lord his position over the other servants as the head attendants of other houses often did. However, the special occasion seemed to have activated Pacer's sense of pride, and he was fluttering around importantly.

It was a shame that his son wasn't out here to appreciate it with him. Jazz _did_ sometimes get nervous in large, chaotic crowds, but Mirage knew that his attendant would enjoy the experience, especially the music. More importantly, one day Mirage would be the Master of the house, which would make Jazz attendant to the Master. Mirage was concerned that Jazz's vision problems might be keeping him from achieving his rightful status among the servants. Mirage silently resolved to do what he could to make certain Jazz received the respect he deserved. Tonight – regretfully, it was too late to do anything about tonight, but from now on he would work to see that Jazz got his due.

Oblique saw Mirage and motioned for his son to join him. "Mirage. Cutting it a little fine, aren't we? Guests will be arriving soon." He gave his son a look of scrutiny and nodded approvingly. "You look good. They'll be falling all over themselves tonight for you. I really do have the most handsome son on Cybertron."

"Thank you, sir. You're looking very good tonight as well." Mirage felt his core temperature rise a little at the praise. It was always an effort not to grin like an idiot whenever his father voiced approval of his son.

"Really, it makes it very difficult for me, as a parent." Oblique's rich voice held a hint of amusement. "I must resign myself to the fact that no matter you choose to be with, you'll be settling." His vents gave a resigned, melodramatic sigh.

Mirage did allow himself a small laugh at that, and Oblique joined him in a restrained chuckle. Oblique did have a sense of humor, though he rarely showed it. It was especially rare that he allowed the humor to take the form of teasing, which spoke of a friendliness and familiarity that Mirage relished.

Oblique returned to his neutral decorum. He turned to his attendant, who was standing some distance away, engaged in a low but seemingly heated discussion with Silverplate, the head butler. "Pacer, settle. It's time to come join me now – leave the rest to Silverplate. Silverplate, we're out of time. This chaos…" Oblique indicated with his hand the hordes of scurrying servants, "has to stop. Everyone who's not serving needs to finish up and get out of sight."

"Yes, Sir." The servants abandoned their expressive gesturing and spoke together. Silverplate squared his shoulders and marched off to exercise his authority. Pacer surrendered his control over the situation with some obvious reluctance. As he turned back toward his master, though, he seemed to cheer, remembering that his position at attendance to Oblique was a privilege afforded to no one else. He slid into place and took up his neutrally attentive posture and expression.

"Well, Mirage, are you ready? Guests will be arriving any klik now, and we're going to be here for awhile. Get comfortable." Mirage nodded and settled into position, readying himself to spend a long time greeting every guest who came in the door before he could set about the serious business of enjoying the party.

* * *

As always, I appreciate the comments and alerts and favorites. I'm using the momentum from them to help me power through finishing this thing. Thank you all!


	14. Chapter 14

**Noblesse Oblige**  
Chapter Fourteen

* * *

Tonight had been a success, Mirage decided. Though it was now no longer technically 'tonight', it was 'early tomorrow morning', the party was still going. It was definitely past the frantic first stages of such an event, when the race was on to get the first drink, have the first dance, to catch facetime with the most important mechs in attendance. But the pressure to see and be seen had ebbed, and now people were mostly spending time in the company of those they enjoyed instead of those whom it was important that they make connections with.

Mirage had missed most of the chaotic throes of the early party, fulfilling his duty as host to stand next to Oblique and repeat the same gracious ritual greetings over and over until he began to think he had been replaced by a drone whose only purpose in life was etiquette and protocol. It was one of the tiresome aspects of being a host, and Mirage wondered if that was why his father avoided holding events at his home.

He was out on one of the long balconies now, enjoying the night. The Tower brats had taken over this particular space, and they were lounging on chairs or against the railing and walls, nursing their drinks and unwinding. They were in varying states of inebriation; Torchlight, sprawled in a chair next to where Mirage leaned against the railing, wore a pleasantly boozy stare. Mirage was not one for getting too overenergized, but he had reached a nicely detached floaty feeling.

It was just about the time of evening to start picking who to take back to his quarters. Mirage considered his many, many options with relish. There was Torchlight, of course. Interfacing with Torchlight was _always_ good. But there was his bet with Jazz to think of, and he was pretty sure Jazz's guess was that he'd choose Torchlight. It was a wise bet; Torchlight _was_ the fan favorite.

Who else? Torchlight's younger brother, Limelight, was talking brightly with two mechs from the Dunes. Limelight, despite his bright name and color scheme, was a bit on the dim side, but he was always friendly and enthusiastic, and during interfacing he was playful and responsive. There was Sterling, who took pride in his study of ancient Cybertronian erotica, and always wanted to utilize obscure positions and techniques. Mirage privately found him a little tiresome. He supposed he should be giving more consideration to the mechs from The Valley and The Dunes. There was a pair of pale twins from The Valley, but while the idea of the rare and exotic was intriguing, Mirage was really more in the mood for the comfortable and familiar tonight. He mentally admitted that he would probably choose Torchlight in the end, and Jazz would win the bet. But Torchlight was such a good lay, there really wasn't a losing side.

"Where's The Glitch tonight? I haven't seen him around." Torchlight leaned his head back lazily and swirled the energon in his cube. On hearing his friends' derogatory nickname for Jazz, Mirage frowned a little. Initially, he had gleefully joined the rest of the Tower brats in making fun of his attendant, but over time it had become less and less amusing. Of course, as his friends sensed his growing discomfort, that just made it funnier to them, and they needled him about his unusual choice in servants at every opportunity.

"Yes, Mirage, we've all missed his presence. It's a shame, really, those optics of his would have gone nicely with the rest of the décor." Shade chimed in.

"He's – been around." Mirage answered stiffly and lamely. "He had duties to attend to."

"Duties. I'll bet." Torchlight smirked and took a sip. "I notice that his duties didn't include standing on display for Sentinel Prime." There was a chorus of snickers from all the surrounding 'bots.

"He had important duties," Mirage reiterated stupidly. "And we had an attendant on hand. There was no need for two."

"Oh, we're not blaming you." Shade held up his hand. "I wouldn't let The Glitch out in public at all, let alone in front of Sentinel Prime. Especially since it's a miracle Prime came at all, really."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mirage was no longer feeling detached or floaty.

Shade shrugged. "Oh, nothing much. It's just…with your father's recent and rather…spectacular financial troubles, it's surprising that Sentinel Prime is willing to associate with him."

"Especially considering all those deals with Decepticons." Torchlight chimed in. "Nightlight says Oblique's going to get himself slagged if he keeps up like he has."

"Nightlight says _what_? That doesn't make any sense. He's a businessmech, just like Oblique. All our sires are. And we're all neutrals. Autobot, Decepticon, or neutral, business is business." Mirage was defensive, and trying not to show how irate he was. Was Oblique's closest friend really talking about him like that?

"Sure, business is business, but you've got to be smart about it. The way the government is these days, the climate… A mech's got to be careful who he associates with. Or who he is _seen_ to be associating with." Shade explained.

"Yeah. Your father may be powerful, but if he's not careful, he's going to get himself labeled as a Decepticon sympathizer, and that's going to make things hard for him." Sterling added.

Mirage openly glared at all of them now. "I trust Oblique implicitly. He knows how to handle himself."

"Mirage…" Torchlight's tone was kindly condescending. "It's great that you trust your father and all, but maybe you should get a little more involved in things. After all, that's the legacy that you're going to inherit. I'd hate for you to come into something…tarnished."

Mirage couldn't believe his audio receptors. "I can't believe _you_, of all mechs, are lecturing me on getting more involved." Torchlight was the poster mech for the idle rich playbot.

Torchlight may have been overenergized, but his gaze was surprisingly serious. "Well, it's not _my_ father whose business flops have been planetwide headlines recently," he pointed out. He leaned forward a little unsteadily. "Look, Mirage. I've got a two-point plan for you to secure your reputation. Point one: talk some sense into that sire of yours. Point two: ditch The Glitch."

Torchlight's mean streak was admittedly one of the reasons Mirage was attracted to him, at least usually. Somehow tonight it didn't strike Mirage as cute or charming or sexy. He pushed himself off the railing. "Excuse me for a moment," he said. "I'm going to refresh my drink." He held up his empty cube in explanation and left the balcony. The buzz in his head was no longer pleasant, and had nothing to do with high-grade energon.

* * *

Same night, different balcony. Mirage leaned over the railing, reveling in the safety and solitude of his own quarters. The ball was still winding down elsewhere, he was sure, but he wasn't in a party mood anymore. He wasn't sure why he was so bothered – to Tower brats, casual cruelty was a game, one he often participated in. Probably everybody else had forgotten about the whole thing by now. They were probably laughing at some humorous faux pas that Limelight had committed. The incident lingered for Mirage, though, and he found himself turning it over and over in his mind as he waited.

He heard the soft ring of the door chime behind him. "Sir? It's Jazz. How can I help you?" his attendant called out into the darkened rooms, his voice at its most professional.

"I'm out on the balcony, Jazz," Mirage called over his shoulder.

The black-and-white 'bot made his way carefully to the doorway to the balcony. "What can I do for you, sir?" he asked, still using his attendant's voice. He was looking around cautiously. _He thinks I've got company_, Mirage realized.

"I'm alone, Jazz. It's just me," Mirage told him and Jazz visibly relaxed, stepping out onto the balcony to join his master.

"Well, _that_ certainly was quick. You out to set a record?" Jazz quipped, raising an optic ridge.

"Not exactly."

"Oh, are you between 'faces? Do you need me to clean things up before bachelor number two gets here?" Jazz guessed.

"No- just – come here." Jazz complied. "Here. I saved you some of this." He thrust a cube of energon into Jazz's hands.

"I'm supposed to be working, Mirage. –hey. Wait, this is warm." A look of surprise and pleasure crossed Jazz's face. "Is this…?"

"Yes. Have a drink, I'm sure you've earned it." Mirage had been secretly teaching Jazz to appreciate fine energon. One of their mutual favorites was the mellow, deep magenta vintage that was spiced with a special combination of additives known only to the mech in charge of the energon cellars. It was served heated, and Mirage found that drinking it felt comforting, like being completely submerged in a warm oil bath.

Jazz complied, taking a sip, offlining his optics briefly in pleasure. "Primus, that's nice," he said. "What did I do to deserve this?" he asked.

"Nothing in particular. I just thought you'd enjoy it." Mirage told him.

"And I do." Jazz sipped appreciatively. "So…how was he? Sentinel Prime?"

"Big. Orange. Impressive."

"That's it? I ask you for details, and that's all you can come up with?" Jazz gave him a disparaging look.

"Pretty much. I mean, we didn't share a cube or anything. He's obviously used to people falling all over themselves in awe of him." Mirage shrugged.

"Heh, that sounds familiar. Maybe you should have shared a cube – you've got something in common." Jazz grinned.

"Hush, you." Mirage growled, not really annoyed. "You know what's funny?" he said after a pause.

"What's that?"

"His- The 'bot with him? He looked EXACTLY like Pacer."

"Really?" Jazz looked interested. "Was he his attendant?"

"I honestly couldn't tell," Mirage confessed. "I thought maybe bodyguard, but he didn't walk in front of the Prime. Sometimes he stood behind him, like an attendant, but sometimes he stood next to him. And Sentinel Prime introduced him, so I guess maybe he wasn't a servant, but I really don't know for sure."

"Sentinel Prime introduced him? What was his name?" Jazz asked.

"I…uh…" Honestly, the 'bot hadn't struck Mirage as important enough to remember his name. It was something short, he remembered…

"You don't remember," Jazz accused. "Oh, you are _such_ a snob."

"I don't. I am." Mirage admitted. "Anyway, it was funny – seeing him and Pacer. I mean, they didn't look _exactly_ alike, but it was close enough. And they both had the same expression…you would have found it funny, trust me."

"Oh, I do. Wish I'd seen it for myself." Jazz took another sip, smiling in pleasure. "So, what about the bet?"

"What about it?"

"Well, we need to figure out who won. So who was the lucky mech?" Jazz asked.

"Guess."

"Uh-uh. No way." Jazz told him. "You'd just lie about it if I guessed correctly."

"You don't trust me at all." Mirage was only partially pretending to be hurt.

"Usually? Yes. Right now? No. So, who was it?" Jazz sounded a bit impatient.

"I can't believe you haven't figured it out yet." Mirage moved closer and when Jazz looked up, he bent and kissed the attendant softly. His mouth was warm and tasted of spiced energon. Mirage pulled out of the kiss and cupped one side of the silver face with a hand. "Now do you know who I chose?"

"_Really_. Every well-bred mech on Cybertron is lined up to sleep with you, and you're going to bang the help? Oblique would _not_ be pleased. I don't know who your father's 'facing with tonight, but I'll bet my skidplate it's not Pacer." Jazz said dryly.

"You know what I don't want to talk about? My father. Or yours." Mirage said firmly.

"Got it. Father talk equals mood-killer. Still, my point stands. You've got your pick out there, and you can have me any day." Jazz pointed out.

"And I want you today. Now. If that's all right with you?" Mirage didn't bother to keep the need out of his voice.

Jazz laughed. "Oh, it's very all right with me. Just making sure it was all right with you too." He set his cube on the rail and stretched up for a kiss.

Mirage only gave him a peck. "Don't forget your drink." He dipped a finger in the liquid and offered it to Jazz. The silver mouth closed on it and Jazz offlined his optics as he suckled on the finger. Mirage moaned softly; his fingers were always sensitive. Jazz eventually let go with a little parting nip and turned his optics back on.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" he asked, coy.

"I'm just trying to even the playing field a little." Mirage pressed the edge of the cube to Jazz's lips. "Here. Finish it off." He tilted the cube and Jazz complied, only a little dripping down his chin. "I've got that." Mirage bent and kissed it away, lingering after the spilled energon was gone, nibbling and nipping along his companion's jawline. By the time he pulled up, Jazz's fans were humming and his vents were panting air raggedly.

"You know," Jazz said, "you don't have to seduce me. I'm going to 'face with you anyway. I'm your servant. I have to," he teased gently.

"I know that," Mirage told him, stroking a silver cheek with his thumb. "But I want you to want to."

Jazz laughed weakly, his optics fritzing. "Oh, you don't have to worry about that." He reached up to touch Mirage's face, hesitating a little. "May I?" he asked.

"Go ahead." Mirage held still as Jazz's hands explored his features. The black hands often stroked his head crests while they interfaced, but Jazz didn't often allow himself to touch Mirage's face. Perhaps he sensed (correctly), that it was an act that was a little too personal to be appropriate. Mirage could tell he had been tempted, though, and when he felt the delicate caresses and saw the joy on Jazz's face, he wondered why it had taken him so long to give in. "Do you like what you see?" he asked quietly.

"Yes. Very much." Jazz laughed softly. "Egomaniac." He traced Mirage's mouth with a thumb and Mirage bit him gently.

"Impertinent scraplet," Mirage rumbled playfully. He placed his hands on Jazz's front bumper and shoved gently, intending to push him backwards into the side railing. Instead, Jazz slid one of his feet back to brace himself.

"Oh, no, I don't think so." Jazz grinned and, with his hands still on Mirage's face, took a step forward. "Not tonight."

"No? What do you think, then?" Mirage allowed Jazz to back him into the railing on the opposite side. The smaller mech butted his chassis against Mirage's, then dropped his head and nuzzled his dark helmet against his master's white chest.

"You'll figure it out eventually." Jazz's voice was smug and sultry. He dropped his hands from his master's face and spread them on Mirage's chest in a move he knew from experience was guaranteed to make the blue 'bot weak in the knees.

It worked. Mirage didn't know why, but something about the way the black hands looked so small on his chest always made him feel powerful and protective and absolutely turned on. When Jazz turned his face up with a carefully cultivated look of innocence, Mirage was lost. He moaned as his knees buckled and he slid down with his back against the railing and Jazz on top of him. The innocent expression on the attendant's face was in direct contrast to the very un-innocent revving of his engine.

Jazz began detailing Mirage's shield emblem with one finger in a replay of the pre-party bathtime. Mirage squirmed a little under the delicate touch that was almost a tickle. The other hand reached for the crests on the side of his head and Mirage gasped as he felt fingers in the sensitive ridges.

Jazz knelt between the blue legs and slid one knee forward into contact with Mirage's groin. Mirage moaned in surprise and thrust his hips forward, grinding himself against the knee desperately. Everything in his body felt as though it was on fire, in the best possible way. Jazz grinned, having discarded the pretense of innocence. "Do you get it yet?" he said, low in Mirage's audio sensors. There was more than a hint of a threat in his voice.

"Y...yes," Mirage groaned. Secretly, he enjoyed it when Jazz took control. The absolute impropriety of the situation was a giant turn-on, in an everything-wrong-is-right sort of way.

"Oh, _good_." Jazz turned and nipped the edge of Mirage's crest. Mirage yelped and twisted. Jazz grabbed his shoulders and held him firm, pushing his knee into Mirage's groin again. "_Stay still_," he snarled, and Mirage did so with great difficulty as Jazz's dental plates nibbled along, doing the work that his fingers usually did. Somehow the substitution of mouth for fingers heightened the sensation, each nerve lighting up like a chandelier.

With his mouth still at work, Jazz let go of Mirage's shoulders and smoothed his hands down the white chest. Mirage shuddered in response and jerked his hips against Jazz's knee. The black-and-white 'bot laughed with his mouth still on Mirage's crest, and the vibration triggered a cascade reaction of feeling, a tingling that spread from his head to the rest of his body in a rush.

Jazz laughed again and kissed him, on the mouth this time, and then let his kisses wander across Mirage's cheeks, down his jawline, back to his mouth… As was usually the case during interfacing, Jazz's optics were surging and sparking so much they were painful to look at up close, so Mirage shut his off. He felt Jazz's mouth, kept trying to capture it with his own before it would wander off. He felt the heat, and the frustratingly pleasant almost-satisfying sensations of Jazz's knee between his legs.

Fingers ran along the seams of his armor under his chest, to his sides…and then slid into cracks, finding and tweaking sensitive wires… Mirage forgot entirely that he was too dignified to whimper. One hand dug around in his side, exposing wiring, performing a search it already knew the result of. The other hand joined the knee between his thighs, stroking with satisfying accuracy. Jazz was laughing into his mouth, but that barely registered because Jazz's fingers had found a dataport.

The sound Mirage made was something between a gasp and a moan. Jazz fingered the entrance, and jolts of electricity pierced through the warmth that had overtaken Mirage's systems. Mirage arched his back with a cry, forgetting that they were on the balcony where Primus and everyone could hear. He was light-years beyond caring, tasting static in his systems, not fighting as some systems crashed or rerouted frantically.

Then Jazz's laugh rose and his fingers left the dataport. Mirage turned on his optics, intending to protest, and the sight that greeted him caused his already taxed fans and air intakes to shift into overdrive. Jazz reared back, a wild look in his sparking optics. The expression on his face was triumphant and his laugh was an exultant crow. With one hand still stroking between Mirage's legs, he used the other to yank his own data cable out. He leaned forward, laughter changing to an unmistakably possessive grin. For a few titillating moments, he teased the edges of the port with his fingers and the tip of the jack. The he lunged forward with a feral roar and plunged his jack into Mirage.

Mirage's vision flashed white, then went black. He felt Jazz rush into him through the connection, feeding him data, feelings, music, emotion, electricity… It all slammed into him, filling him, overriding even the physical touches Jazz was making. Overload hit him like a physical impact – he struggled to hang on as his systems shorted, but the sensations were too strong, and he gave himself to them and let it feel good, better than good and then… nothing.

His CPU came back online before his optics, and he hung in blackness for a while as his systems rebooted one by one, some of them requiring a couple of tries. Even after he felt his vision return to functionality, he waited for a bit to turn on his optics.

When he did, everything was sideways. It seemed his vision had returned before his motor functions, and his head lolled to the side on his shoulder. He was sitting in the same place, slumped against the railing on his balcony. Jazz knelt in front of him, gazing at his master with a self-satisfied smirk that had no place on a servant. Mirage didn't feel angry at all, though he suspected he should. Jazz had dominated him so completely, and yet…it was okay. He trusted Jazz not to abuse the control, and to give it back when it was time.

Jazz noticed his reactivated optics and laughed, low and smug, in greeting. Mirage simply watched him for a moment, then slowly pulled his head back upright. Jazz's posture was relaxed, his data cable still connecting the two of them. Mirage could feel the tingle of its presence at the edge of his consciousness, but it was passive, Jazz wasn't sending anything through it. It slowly dawned on Mirage: above the hum of both of their cooling systems, he could hear Jazz's engine involuntarily revving. _He hasn't_…

"You haven't overloaded," Mirage said slowly. The wicked smile spread wide across Jazz's face. He chuckled louder and shook his head.

"Nope. It's all you, buddy," Jazz drawled. Mirage realized that his hands were in the same place they'd been the whole time: pressed against the cool metal of the balcony floor. He hadn't touched Jazz once. Mirage was confused for a moment about how to feel about being on the receiving end of an act that was at the same time so controlling and so unselfish. Then he understood that he felt good about it, and let that be enough.

"Would…you like to?" Mirage asked, his vocalizer still working a bit slowly.

Jazz's smirk melted into a fond smile. "You're tired," he said, with a small wave of dismissal.

"No…no. I mean, yes. I'm tired. But I can still…" Mirage struggled to get his cables and tendons and struts and ligaments to function. He finally managed to sit forward and reach for Jazz. He caught the waving hand, felt the hum of Jazz's systems. "You're close," he said.

"Yes," Jazz confessed, softening. The dominant streak seemed to ebb away.

"Come here," Mirage ordered quietly and Jazz allowed himself to be pulled into an embrace. Mirage was too exhausted for a seeking, demanding kiss, but the leisurely one they engaged in did just as well.

With one arm for support, Mirage pulled them both down sideways. He felt Jazz tense as the balance shifted, but then he relaxed and sent a little pulse of something Mirage identified as trust through their almost-forgotten connection. They lay on their sides, facing each other. Mirage petted Jazz, stroking his face, then the sides of his helmet, then the ridge in the center, and then his antennae, making his companion's optics blink blissfully.

Jazz reached out, and Mirage allowed his attendant to touch his face. The black hands didn't touch the crests, they just smoothed down his forehead, over his optics, across his cheeks and nose down to his chin and over again. It wasn't an erotic touch, but Mirage liked the feeling he was pretty sure Jazz didn't realize he was sharing over their datalink. Comforting. _Like warm spiced energon. Like an oil bath. Like lying under the stars in the company of someone who_… Mirage couldn't finish that thought, so he turned his attention to other matters.

He ran his hands over his attendant's body, not making any sudden grabs or gropes, just tracing his form. He heard Jazz's singular purring hum in response, a satisfied sound he hadn't heard anyone else make while interfacing. He kept it up as Mirage's hands moved over his frame, though the sound caught a little when the blue hands traced his wheel wells or ghosted over his thighs.

They leaned together for a kiss, and it was long, slow, and gentle. Jazz kept humming, and Mirage could feel the minute vibrations it caused. Still enjoying the silver mouth, he eased his leg over and caught one of Jazz's, shifting until they were intertwined. Finally, the kiss ended, but they kept their faces together. Jazz's optics were dim and flickering. Mirage wondered if his companion was dimming his optics in consideration for him, or if that was just what they happened to be doing.

Mirage felt for his own data cable and pulled it out. Favoring Jazz with a series of brief kisses, he felt for the other's data port. When his fingers found it, he felt his companion writhe a little, and he hesitated, not being able to resist the chance for a little payback. His fingers dipped into the port and Jazz squirmed again, purring. He teased the entrance for another few moments and then gently plugged himself in, completing the loop.

He didn't flood the link with data suddenly, as Jazz had done. Instead, he gradually worked the connection into life, feeling the one Jazz had with him stir as well. Jazz sent him the feeling that Mirage was currently causing by stroking a sensitive joint in the smaller mech's armor. Mirage smiled. He didn't have anything overly erotic to send Jazz at the moment, so he looped his attendant into the comforting feeling of his own hands on Mirage's face.

He was surprised at the strength of Jazz's response. Jazz continued to stroke his master's face, his humming deepened, and he sent a little rush of happiness to Mirage through their link. He butted his face up against Mirage's, clamoring for a kiss, and Mirage complied, sending his pleasure at the sensation back along the link to Jazz. He could feel the smaller 'bot's body heat increase under his fingers, but the whole experience was so slow and gentle and gradual that he found himself surprised when Jazz's body tensed and he began sending rushes of feeling through the link. He was going into overload.

Mirage could feel the electricity, the energy of it, even if it wasn't the usual frantic, grasping experience. He continued to kiss Jazz's mouth, the humming now broken by gasps. He fed Jazz as much pleasure as he could, and then, to his surprise, felt his own systems start to slip away. _Am I overloading? Again? Already?_ He was, but if his last overload had been a sudden impact, this was a slow slide and he was able to savor the pleasure, compounded by the feedback from Jazz, as he slid off into nothingness.

* * *

When Mirage's optics came online again, it took his processors awhile to catch up. _What…? This isn't my recharge berth. Jazz? What is he doing here? Wait, are we outside? How did we get…oh, right. I remember_. He recognized the fuzziness at the edges of his consciousness as the aftereffects of a little too much energon. Mirage propped himself up on one arm and shook his head. The hangover wasn't too bad – he hadn't had _that_ much to drink.

The stars were gone, and the sunrise cast a violet light over everything. The grounds, the railings, the floor, Jazz… His attendant lay sprawled on his side, curled toward Mirage. His optics were dark and his mouth was open just a little. They were still connected, Mirage realized, his optics falling on the data cables that still linked them.

As if in response, he felt a small flicker from the other end of the link. Jazz was waking up slowly, shifting and muttering inaudible nonsense. One optic flickered to life and he sat up suddenly, looking around wildly.

"Jazz! Jazz. It's Mirage. You're on my balcony. It's morning. We must have fallen asleep." Jazz turned to him, his appearance even more unnerving than usual with one optic sparking brightly and the other dark.

"Oh…right…I guess so. Huh." He smiled a little sheepishly.

"Jazz…um…your optic…it's not…" Mirage couldn't figure out how to put 'One of your optics is out and it looks slagging creepy' delicately.

Jazz grimaced self-consciously. "Yeah. It does that sometimes. It just needs a little…finesse." He tapped the temple next to the dark optic with a finger. When that failed to produce results, he rapped it sharply with the heel of his hand several times. The optic flickered to life dimly, and slowly brightened. "See?" he said lightly, with a grin and a slight wince.

"That looked like it hurt," Mirage told him flatly.

Jazz laughed easily. "It's not so bad. Give a little, get a little." He grinned.

"If you say so." Mirage was dubious, but grateful that Jazz wasn't looking so lopsided anymore. He sat up all the way and reached for his data jack, unplugging it from Jazz. Jazz glanced down, surprised.

"Oh! We were still…" He gave an embarrassed little chuckle. Mirage unplugged Jazz's data jack and he retracted the cable. The black-and-white mech sat up and turned his face to the morning sky. When he didn't turn back, Mirage realized that for once, Jazz wasn't sure what to say.

Mirage didn't know, either. Improprieties had certainly been committed, but Mirage didn't want to think about them hard enough to put names to them. And while he couldn't condone them, there was no way he could condemn them either. The night had been…good. Mirage settled on a way to resolve the tension.

"It seems that I've won our wager." Mirage colored his tone with arrogance and smug self satisfaction. Jazz turned back to him and the unease dissolved with the sound of his laugh, bright as the new sunlight.

"Yeah, I guess you did."

* * *

Thanks to everybody who's been reading and reviewing, as always. Updates may get a bit slower from here on out, as this is the last complete chapter I have. It's not the end of the fic, by any stretch of the imagination, but I need to get moving and write the rest. I need discipline.


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